Ace Combat: Remember Me (Closed)

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Ace Combat: Remember Me (Closed)

Postby Beiarusia » Sat Oct 21, 2017 10:56 pm


Many stories exist in war.





The names of heroes are forever etched into the annals of history, but what of those caught living in the background of greatness? The unnamed soldier. The civilian in the midst of battle. The enemy pilot dreaming of home. The child witnessing a dance of angels. Untold stories in the darkest of days.

Remember those caught below heaven.

Remember Me.

Remember Me is a series of short stories set in the universe created by the Aces of Strangereal RP Group, an AU of an AU, and here one is free to delve into events separate from the main canon in regards to the various RP's sharing this setting. There is no limit to the potential stories that develop during times of war, and here we hope to explore alternate viewpoints that are often overlooked in favor of plot convenience.
Anyone currently involved in an Aces of Strangereal RP, the RP Group Thread, or the Discord is free to post here.

In Chronological Order:
Hounds of Heaven
Broken Line (ACTIVE)
Mirrored Echo

Dan's Odyssey, Part One

Last edited by Beiarusia on Wed Nov 01, 2017 8:08 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Part I: The Captain

Postby Tayner » Sun Oct 22, 2017 2:01 pm

Captain Thabo Mbeki
SSMS Mandela, South Atlantic
November 6, 1992

The bridge crew watched through binoculars as they sat on the bridge under blackout conditions. Thabo had ordered the Mandela pull along side a larger iceberg to mask her radar signature, and they go lights out to avoid detection, lest they become incorrectly recognized as a combatant. The Mandela was a South Sotoan Merchant Ship bound home from Aurelia, and happpened to be caught near a fight in international waters. After the fighters above disengaged then the Mandela proceeded on course.

"One radar contact, bearing 098°, a Dorusian warship, the DFNS Kurgan" The first mate observed.

"Likely conducting SAR, don't interfere." He said, and they continued on their way, avoiding the ship of a hostile power. As the minutes ticked by and the two ships sailed different directions, the crew stood watch. Only minutes after they dropped radar contact the watchman on the bow spotted something.

"Zenani to bridge, I see something in the water, and I don't think it's another ice sheet."

"Aye, Thabo here, I'll be there in a minute." He reported into his hand held radio before grabbing his coat and exiting the bridge. "All stop. First mate, you have the conn." He said before stepping outside. The deck was being dusted with snow, and ice crystals were starting to form on the hull. Thabo swiftly made his way over to Zenani, who had waved him over. Thabo observed through binoculars what Zenani saw. "Illumination." He said, and Zenani returned with a spotlight.

"Is that-" Zenani said as he observed the object under the light.

"Mbeki to bridge, we have a man in the water. I need an away team organized, take the life boat to 50 meters in front of the bow, I repeat, we have a man in the water." Within two minutes the lifeboat was in the water, and in another they brought the man who was in the water on board. "He's got onset hypothermia." Thabo diagnosed, seeing the fair skinned man shivering. "Be gentle and get him into the crew quarters. You, throw some towels into the dryer and heat them up, you, get the wet clothes off of him and dry him off." He started ordering.

Two hours later...

"The Kurgan isn't responding to hails, and we only have enough fuel to make it to Port Codd. He's going to have to stay with us." The first mate reported. They all knew what that meant, he'd end up in a prison somewhere, a pilot bearing markings of a power hostile to an ally of their own. The man would be lucky if they didn't drop him into a hole and forget about him.

"I must speak to him." He said, departing the impromptu meeting held in the mess hall. He walked into the crew quarters, and took a chair and sat beside the bed of the stranger, who was covered in layers of blankets and towels. "Who are you?" He asked in Osean. The man only looked at him, with untrusting eyes. "I'm not here to do harm, but I can't help you if you if you remain silent." The man simply paused for a second as to consider his options, before speaking.

"Second Lieutenant Samuel Daniel, 13th Mercenary Air Squadron, Morena." He said.

"Mercenary..." Thabo said, recognizing the name. The man would be lucky if they didn't execute him the second he stepped of the ship.

"Where am I?" The man asked.

"A merchant ship, headed to South Sotoa." He said. The pilot physically grew weary, recognizing the name of the country as an ally of an enemy. "We're not military, we'll help you." He said, and the pilot simply looked up, as if a spark had been light in his eyes.

"Why?" He asked.

"Because I know what it's like to be trapped, and I don't want someone else to feel that way. I'm friends with the head of the port authority at Codd, and I know someone who can get you out of the country. I don't want to make promises, but you have a long way to go ahead of you." Thabo said.

"Thank you." Dan said, and with that Thabo stood up, and left the room to allow the man to slip into sleep. He was a lucky one, if he had been picked up by another merchant ship, he might not be so lucky. He could've died in the water of hypothermia, he may have ended up in a shallow grave in Southern Sotoa, or even worse, been buried at sea. The thoughts disturbed Thabo, but he knew that he was doing the right thing, helping his fellow man. He could only hope that it didn't bite him in the ass later down the line.
Last edited by Tayner on Sun Oct 22, 2017 8:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
If anyone askes where we were Saturday at 14:30, we were at The Pub, understand?

-If it's stupid, but it works, it ain't stupid.
-No Combat Ready unit has ever passed inspection.
-No Inspection Ready unit has ever passed combat.
-There is nothing more satisfying to you then having the enemy shoot at you, and miss.
-Remember, your weapon was made by the lowest bidder.
Disclaimer: The sig is out of date and I probably won't update it

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Postby Parcia » Tue Oct 24, 2017 12:03 pm

Set between the events of the Ace Combat: Broken Line, The Belkan War, and the events of Ace Combat 6: Fires of liberation and Ace Combat: Mirrored Echos
January 12th, 2016
Gledina, Estovakia

The man sat on the cold bench, the Winter chill nipping at his nose. He wore a slightly faded yet impeccably clean dress uniform, his multiple metals and achievements weighed a bit heavy on his chest. He brought up a gloved hand and checked his watch, the early morning sun causing him to squint.

She should have been here already.

"You know, when I saw your name on the letter, I didn't know who you were." The women's voice caught him off guard, one of the few times it had happened in these many years. He turned his head and watched the blond as she walked closer. She wore a equally faded Osean style ACU jacket (Re-created Forest camo), that was zipped up and closed, a pair of ACU pants, black combat boots, and cap.

"Oh really? They much have not taught you much on school then, about the war." She chuckled and sat on the cold bench. "They do, but your Merc pilots tend to get left behind when it comes to naming the combatants." He took a moment to eye her. She was youthful, properly so for being some 15 years his junior, her blond hair in a neat bun, her blue eyes shown fiercely beneath her aviators. He had seen those eyes his mothers picture, everything he looked at it.

"You look a lot like her." She averted her eyes at this. She had never met her real mother, hell up until her 20th birthday she never knew she was adopted. She never got to know her "Mother" and from what he had told her, he didn't even know who her "Father" was either. She had told him about "Mom and Dad" though, how they raised her, how they brought her up as one of their own.

To break the ice a little more, she brought up said family. "You know, when I finally realized who you were, I told my little brother and he flipped out, apparently he and his friends have a sort of fan clubs for the, and I quote "Knights of the Round Table"." She suppressed a giggle at this. Nick, on the other hand, shown a solemn face. "Tis a fitting name, for what we did." He looked away to the ACT that was under construction, just over the garden hedge the hit the small park from view of the Air base.

He turned to her. "I wan't you to know something. Being a soldier for not expect the same respect from your peers. Do not expect them to give their foes they deserve either, I have seen men shot out of parachutes, hit mid air, on purpose, by friendly planes..." He paused. "I know you have seen war, Anastasia, but be prepared to see things in a wholly different way when your war is fueled by greed rather then patriotism."

She took his words in, knowing full well he spoke the truth. She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her. "I fear I do not have any time..I have a flight of greenhorns I must train." She raised an eyebrow. "They still let you in to a bird?" she spoke, disbelieving "Their is a reason why they call me "The Dragon of the Round Table"

And with that, the man walked away, towards the gate. He stopped and turned. "Oh, wait, forgot." he produced a small block box from his pocket and tossed it to her. She caught it with a gloved hand and began to open it. "No, wait until you leave. Its a memento of mine, something my...our mother wore." She looked back to him. "Thank you."

He smiled, the first time in months. "No problem...and I would advice staying away from Anea for the next couple of months."
So apparently Cobalt has named me a Cyber terrorist, I honestly don't know to be Honored or offended.
Right leaning Centrist from Florida No I am not The Floridaman...hes my uncle. Other then that dont @ me about politics, im leaving that
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Democratic Socialists

Postby Ubaria » Tue Oct 24, 2017 3:15 pm

As a 'teaser', i present the prolouge of Ace Combat: Paragon.

To describe the Azar Desert as just a desert was a gross understatement, although it fulfilled all the necessary criteria to classify it as such; it was on an entirely different level altogether. The ‘Devil's Pasture’ locals called it, fifty thousand square kilometers of dry, sun scorched wasteland was deserving of such a moniker as the area had not seen rainfall as far back as people had been recording rainfall, not just sand, but salty dust was incapable of supporting life even at the microscopic level. It was truly a representation of hell on earth, or as close as one could find anyway.
Though the ground was sterile to crops, livestock and just about any living being except for the circling vultures waiting to feast on the carrion of those poor enough to wander for too long, the Azar was more valuable than one would think at a first glance. Once you looked below the cragged and salt encrusted earth, down into the dry rock you could find the lifeblood of modern civilization. Black Gold. Some of the largest deposits of crude oil and natural gas on the planet lay dormant beneath the harshness, only in recent decades had the Levantese begun to tap into this unaccessed resource and as soon as the rest of the world got wind, they wanted in.

Yuktobania; a relatively secular and socialist superpower had little reason to take notice of the traditionally isolationist and heavily religious nation until then, for Osea the ‘Holy Republic of the Levant’ was little more than a niche holiday destination and purveyor of strange cuisines, not just to them, but the rest of the world over too. Then there was the Islamic State of Sercia to the north, needless to say the Sercians were not too fond of their hardline Jewish neighbours to the south, there had been tensions for decades with only minor incidents between the two, however a recent flashpoint had ignited a far bigger conflict.

September the 8th, 1991 was the official Sercian declaration of war, citing a recent Levantese commando raid on their sovereign soil as the casus belli. The war was bloody and left lasting marks on either nation but even when a peace accord was signed by both nations in May the following year, the violence was far from over. The Levant itself was home to several Muslim population enclaves, some of them mountain hill tribes and some living in larger mixed communities, however tensions between the native Muslims and the Levantine government were strained even before the war, the expansion into oil rich territories had resulted in forcible relocation of tribal communities in the desert and steppe regions in the east, that and the lack of representation in the majorly Jewish government had triggered frequent protests from the Muslim masses, they would only turn increasingly sour.

Radicalist preachers, most likely paid and trained by the Sercians inspired uprisings similar to ones seen in Yuktobanian, Soatoan and other unstable nation states across the world. Separatists eventually began breaking away, claiming large swaths of ground theirs by right, damaging valuable industry and agricultural sectors and threatening the already fragile infrastructure of the country.
Even though the Sercians were ambivalent to the carnage occurring below them, it was obvious that the rebellion was engineered by them, sour from their premature peace they would attempt to rot out the Levant from the inside before attempting once again to claim what they believed to be theirs. What would become known as the ‘Levantese Insurgency’ was a conflict that claimed several thousand lives, poverty and bloodshed on an unimaginable scale that spurred an international aid effort, however soon enough those on the borders of the conflict would be drawn into military action after an Emmerian Aid Convoy was bombed, killing several Emmerian, Osean and Aurelian nationals. As a direct result Osea spearheaded an international peacekeeping taskforce in the region under the title of Paragon; a multinational coalition of Air, Naval and Army assets drawn from nations such as Emmeria, Sapin, North Point and Aurelia. They stepped in to oversee the conflict and ensure that peace was held, everybody was wise to the fact that it was only to protect Osean investments in the region, namely the oil.

Paragon was not welcomed by all however. The Levantese at first were apprehensive about letting a sizable foreign military force on their own soil, some officials and generals outright boycotted the idea stating that it ‘made the Levantese look weak and incapable of defending itself’. To the rebels it was an obvious hostile act, aiding the enemy and bombing their holy land was sacrilege, that and they weren’t too fond of foreigners in the first place. The Levantine Armed forces were abrasive to the fact that they had to get somebody else to do their job for them, yet there was a certain camaraderie between them, a mutual respect between soldiers across faiths. For Paragon on the other hand, they were wondering why they had been stationed to defend such a godforsaken patch of hell.
Last edited by Ubaria on Tue Oct 24, 2017 3:21 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Part II: The Customs Officer

Postby Tayner » Wed Nov 01, 2017 8:07 pm

Asini Sebekki
Port Codd, South Sotoa
November 7th, 1992

Asini sat in his office that was in the port building, looking over papers, manifests, crew listings, and schedules for the morning. Three ships were coming in, the Mandela, the Pathfinder, and the Saltwater. He'd be expected to search every one of them thoroughly, but in reality the solo customs officer would simply conduct small searches through one or two of the ship's cargo hold to make sure no substantial amount of contraband would get by. He was the only one morning shift, and it was a common practice, besides, each ship didn't have any crew or large amount of cargo being dropped off, they were here just for fuel and provisions.

He decided he'd search the first ship to reach port, along with his trusty friend, Rust. Rust was a black and reddish brown bloodhound who had trustfuly conducted thorough searches via his acute sense of smell. Asini tossed a small milk bone that he kept in his jacket's pocket to the dog, who greatfully gobbled it up before barking and waggling his tail. As Asini started to pet him Rust rolled over, exposing his stomach. After a few minutes the Mandela pulled into port, the cargo ship towering over the man and dog.

Soon enough the ship was tied up and Asini was able to board the vessel. He walked the deck, accompanied by a dock worker and the captain of the vessel, as well as his trusty hound. After walking by every row of containers, no sign of anomalies, he brought Rust down into the cargo bay, and then the crew quarters. Nothing. After a good 45 minutes, the trusty hound found nothing abnormal, and the group made their way back above deck, but Rust thought otherwise. Just as they were opening the hatch to above deck Rust shot down the corridor and around the corner into the mess hall.

There was some confusion amongst the few people present in the mess hall, but the hound quickly found it's way into the galley, much to the chef's dismay. Asini and the captain were close behind the dog, and when he started clawing on the door to the freezer, Asini ordered it to be opened. Once the hatch was open, Rust slowly sniffed the freezer, entering it and going to a corner where some steak and other meats were stored. The dog sat down and looked at Asini.

Something or someone wasn't supposed to be in there.

Asini opened boxes and tossed aside meat, the hardened animal flesh clambering against the deck. He dug through boxes and crates until he came across a box of chicken. He reached inside one of the poultry's cleaned out insides, and with his hand produced a brick of drugs, heroin. He immediately got on his radio and raised the port authority and local law enforcement, and the captain visibly sighed and lost heart. Thanks to this the port authority would have to scrub the ship clean, and probably do a search on the other ships too, making his day all the more busier.

At least he stopped some drugs from getting into the country, a problem with the government would likely congratulate him for fixing.
If anyone askes where we were Saturday at 14:30, we were at The Pub, understand?

-If it's stupid, but it works, it ain't stupid.
-No Combat Ready unit has ever passed inspection.
-No Inspection Ready unit has ever passed combat.
-There is nothing more satisfying to you then having the enemy shoot at you, and miss.
-Remember, your weapon was made by the lowest bidder.
Disclaimer: The sig is out of date and I probably won't update it

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Part III: The Smuggler

Postby Tayner » Tue Apr 17, 2018 4:24 pm

Marco Denali
Port Codd, South Sotoa
November 7th, 1992

When Marco was told to expect a package to be shipped from Port Codd to Dorusia, he wasn't expecting that package to be a 'who.' An old friend from the Merchant fleet had told him of the man's circumstances, however, he understood. He was trying to get back to his country, to his unit, which was across a less than stable border region. Had Marco been a patriotic man, he'd turn him over to the authorities, but he was after fortune, just like the man before him. However, his pity and debt to a friend wouldn't fully compensate getting this man into Dorusia.

"What's your name?" The smuggler asked the fair skinned North Pointer before him.


"Your full name."

"Second Lieutenant Samuel A. Daniel, of the 13th Mercenary Air Squadron, Morena. Call sign 'Gunny,' serial number-"

"That's enough." He said, looking the man over. "How did you end up here, in my house?" He asked.

"I was shot down."

"Not over Port Codd. Where?" He asked again.

"The ocean."

"Doing what?" He probed.

"That's classified." The man spoke with the same monotone and stiff tone he had since he walked through the door. This Samuel Daniel looked him in the eye, but it was as if he looked through him, past him, and across the ocean to where he was supposed to be. He was determined, but still remembering who he was, and stayed tight lipped. After all, he was supposed to be fighting a war. As long as Marco did his part of the job, Dan wouldn't rat him out. He wouldn't be a loose end.

"Very well, Second Lieutenant Samuel A. Daniel, of the Thirteenth Mercenary Air Squadron, Morena. Let's discuss compensation."

Marco Denali
Port Codd, South Sotoa
November 24th, 1992

Dan, as he liked to be called, didn't have much money on tap, just a few bank notes from a far away country. He had to offer collateral, in the way of the man's sidearm and a bracelet that he seemed to have trouble parting with, if only temporarily. They were at an airfield concealed in the countryside miles away from Port Codd, ready to step off in a Cessna Cargomaster into Dorusia with a co-pilot and a few crates containing some less than legal contents. Dan would be riding backseat, not being allowed to take the stick.

Before the trio boarded the craft, Marco stopped the fair skinned man. "Here." He said, giving back the man's weapon and bracelet. "Although I'm keeping the wallet, nice black leather." He said.

"Go ahead." He said, sliding the weapon into his holster and dawning the bracelet. Although Marco wasn't a fool, he unloaded the firearm days prior. Their flight would be an hour and a half, and Dan had promised to wire $10,000 Osean Dollars to Marco when they landed. They would set off as midnight, and wounded fly low enough to not be detected by radar.

Marco looked out at the night sky, the new moon being simply a small dark splotch that concealed a few stars from view. One couldn't tell the ground from the sky in the pitch black, other than the fact that that the stars were up. Thankfully it was a cloudless night, allowing a perceptive eye to find where the sky met the horizon, the gentle contours of the South Sotoan landscape a faint silhouette. The rumbling of the engines resounded throughout the cabin, and everything was almost calm.

Before a duo of blips appeared on radar.

<< This is the Dorusian Air Force. You have violated Dorusian airspace, reverse your heading. >>

The voice cut through the cabin, static clicking as they finished transmitting.

"How do they see us?" The co-pilot panicked.

"They must have ground-based radar on one of those hills." Dan commented.

"They're waiting for another attack." Marco observed.

<< State your designation and destination, now, or reverse course. >>

<< This is Cargo Plane 325-B, heading to Mombasa on a routine cargo flight- >>

<< Negative, we don't have you on our records and you're flying to low. Divert heading to two-niner-zero degrees and prepare to land at Vostok Air Force Base for detainment. >>

<< Uhhh... Negative... we don't have the fuel to make it... >>

The excuse didn't work, as the two planes, which Dan identified as F-16s, circled around and matched heading off either side of the Cessna, their lights a frightful reminder of their presence in the blacked out sky.

<< This is your last warning, change heading or be shot down. >>

After a few moments of silence, Marco went to acknowledge and change heading, but he had stalled for too long. A barrage of 20mm rounds tore apart the starboard wing, and the plane started it's spiraling decent. The pilots didn't have a few more seconds to wait, otherwise they might have had to shoot down the plane over a populated area. "Hold on!" Marco yelled, managing to stop the spiraling and pull up in an attempt for a crash landing. The co-pilot went to grab a parachute and jump out, but they didn't have the chance.

The Cessna impacted the ground, leaving a trail of fuel and unearthed brush in its wake. It continued for about a hundred meters. Marco and the co-pilot were both dead in the cockpit, slumped over their instruments, and Dan, in the backseat, was still kicking. He pulled himself out of the plane, and ran into the woods. He was almost to the tree line when Marco called out, somehow still alive.

"Wait, Hel-"

Before Dan could turn around, and before Marco could finish his plea for help, the fuel in the plane exploded. Dan fell to his back, dragging himself to a resting position on a tree where he could view the scene. Two jets soared overhead, and a helicopter was heard closing in, and then another. Soon spotlights scoured the area, before one centered on Dan, then multiple. It was then when he saw the wound in his leg, and it was then figures approached him, pointing weapons at him.

He attempted to throw his hands up in surrender, but he simply fell unconscious.
Last edited by Tayner on Wed Apr 25, 2018 2:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
If anyone askes where we were Saturday at 14:30, we were at The Pub, understand?

-If it's stupid, but it works, it ain't stupid.
-No Combat Ready unit has ever passed inspection.
-No Inspection Ready unit has ever passed combat.
-There is nothing more satisfying to you then having the enemy shoot at you, and miss.
-Remember, your weapon was made by the lowest bidder.
Disclaimer: The sig is out of date and I probably won't update it

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Founded: Oct 09, 2014
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Part IV: The Company Clerk

Postby Tayner » Wed Apr 25, 2018 3:05 pm

Sergeant Maxwell Regis
Mombasa, Dorusia
December 12, 1992

"Good morning Lieutenant." Maxwell said to a scruffy looking fellow who sat across his desk. "Coffee?" He asked, before being politely turned down. However, he made his own cup before pursuing the officer's inquiry. "How can I help you?" He asked, after taking a sip.

"I was told I need to report here to finalize some paperwork, so I can get back to my unit." The officer said.

"Your name?"

"Second Lieutenant Samuel Daniel."

"Right." Max said before punching the name in his computer. "Still looks like you haven't filled out your RTS-13 and FCW-1/2 forms. And you're still presumed KIA/WIA, apparently. You'll need to fill out a RDO-82 form to fix that." He said.

"How long will that take?"

"About a few hours, but a few weeks to process it all."

"Can you expedite it?" Dan asked.

"That is the expedited speed, sir." Max answered.

"Very well."

"It also looks like your IRF-33 wasn't properly processed, the report section was left blank by whoever put it in. I'll be back in one second and we can finish it." Mex said, before getting up. He needed to get a whiteness for the report, and a recorder. He found his section leader and returned, placing a recorder on his desk and tapping the record button.

"This is Sergeant Maxwell Regis debriefing Second Lieutenant Samuel Daniel for his IRF-33 form under Military Police Regulation MPR-117/421. Second Lieutenant Ernest White whitnessing. May you both state your names and ranks for the record." He started, and they both sounded off. "Sir, can you recount the events of the evening of November 7th?"

"Yes." Dan started. "I was attempting to return to Dorusia via air under the transportation of a South Sotoan smuggler." He started.

"Did you identify this smuggler?" Max asked.

"No, my transit was organized by a third party."

"And who was that?"

"Another person who I was sent to by another third party." Dan answered.

"Did you ever catch any names?" Max asked.

"No. They were South Sotoan Ressistance, they didn't like giving names."

"Were you aware that Marco Denali, a South Sotoan terrorist, was identified as your 'smuggler,' and his accomplice was a Fredric Calli?" Max asked.


"Very well. Continue with your story."

"We were shot down just over the border, and I passed out when the Dorusian QRF arrived."

"Alright. Would you like to alter or amend your statement in any way at this time?"


"And you understand that if any evidence is uncovered to the contrary of your report, you will be brought up on charges of purgery, and will be dismissed from service pending a military tribunal under AR-113-290."


"Very well. End recording." He said as he tapped the button again, and stored the tape away, completing the file. "Also, sir, you'll have to fill out a MHP-118 to be able to return to service as a pilot, and a PHW-101. That should be all."

"I guess I'll be back in a few hours with all of this filled out." Dan said, and took the stack of paper and left. The other Lieutenant turned to him.

"Do you trust him?" White asked.

"No. He's mercenary. No way he'd go through these hoops to get into our military on his own agenda." Max reported.

"Would you care to testify to that?"
Last edited by Tayner on Sat Aug 11, 2018 6:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.
If anyone askes where we were Saturday at 14:30, we were at The Pub, understand?

-If it's stupid, but it works, it ain't stupid.
-No Combat Ready unit has ever passed inspection.
-No Inspection Ready unit has ever passed combat.
-There is nothing more satisfying to you then having the enemy shoot at you, and miss.
-Remember, your weapon was made by the lowest bidder.
Disclaimer: The sig is out of date and I probably won't update it

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Posts: 7891
Founded: Oct 09, 2014
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Part V: The Prisoner

Postby Tayner » Wed Jan 01, 2020 1:38 am

Lt. Ronnie Steinbeck, "Siren"
Ver Eiland AFB, Secondary Detainment Center
December 21, 1992

It has been about a month and a half since Ronnie ended up in Ver Eiland. After a few days of being questioned and being held in the proper detention center, she was stuck into the "secondary detention center," which was basically an overflow prison camp. Set up in an old baseball field, three tents (a male's and female's dormitory and a mess tent), were enclosed by an old chain link fence that had been enlarged with razor wire. The anouncer's box had been utilized as the camp comander's office and a watch tower, while two more watch towers were constructed along the first and third base lines, outside of the wire.

Needless to say, the fence was regularly patrolled and they were watched over the prisoners diligently 24/7.

With the insurrection attempt quelled, a lot of people came through this camp, but only a few people ever stayed for extended periods of time, people who were military like herself, Weaver, or Vasko. A lot of the civilians were simply shuffled through in a manner of weeks, but the pilots weren't going anywhere fast. However, her interest was peaked when a new prisoner was brought in.

Definitely military, judging by his flight suit. A fellow North Pointer, with the blue and white flag embroiled on his sleeve. However, he couldn't have been with the NPAF. Although, she did hear that a fair number of North Pointers ended up in that mercenary unit, Morena. And he definitely wasn't within NPAF grooming standards. He wore a scruffy stubble and had unkempt brown hair along with non-regulation boots. And he didn't carry himself like an airman.

Definitely a mercenary.

They'd likely shoot him. Lord knows they'd come damn well close to shooting legal combatants, and even insurgents, but mercenaries were a whole 'nother tier of prisoner, lower than almost any other person, no real legal protection from abuse or summary execution. The sergeant who was leading him and two other guards through the fence made it clear that he could easily be shot, and he was very likely to be shot for next to no reason, sometime soon.

Another person who might fit into the plan, although they'd have to expedite it.

"Very well." Weaver said, in a hushed voice.

"I don't like it, how can we trust him?" Vasko asked.

"I have a feeling, I just know." Ronnie said.

"Very reassuring." Vasko retorted, receiving a glare from the woman.

"If she's got faith, I do too. I'm sure he wants out just as much as us." Weaver replied.

"Very well." Said Vasko. "Tomorrow?" He asked.

"Yes. They'll-" Ronnie started before stoping, a guard walking down the aisle in the mess. The acted about as casual as prisoners could act as they passed, eating and picking at their lunch, well, casually. "They'll likely shoot him tomorrow. Warden doesn't give a damn and I think that sergeant, the mean one, has had a bone to pick with us prisoners for a while. He's itching to get some blood, and that pilot's got no law keeping him from being executed. We can use him." Ronnie finished after the guard passed.

"Hey, Highlander!" Ronnie called to the pilot. It was evening, the guards had left him alone, and it was just before curfew. "Take this and hide it." She said, slipping a shiv into hid hand. "Don't use it until you get the signal." She said. "Trust me, it's in your best interest." Ronnie finished, before turning to leave.

"How will I know?" The newcomer asked.

"You'll know." She said.

There was a commotion from the male tent, just at the crack of dawn. Two guards were dragging the newcomer out, and many prisoners were following, watching from a safe distance. The sergeant stood in the outside communal area in center field, where prisoners would often sit at when allowed outside. Pistol strapped to hip, one hand resting on the weapon and the other on his belt.

The newcomer had a few new bruises, and it had appeared that he had received a blow to a relatively new wound, as the two guards literally dragged him out of the tent. They presented the prisoner to their sergeant, and the older, fat soldier leaned forward into the neecomer's face. "Do you know why you are here?" He asked, loudly for the gathering crowd to hear.

"I guess it has something to do with that piece you've got on your hip." Dan spoke, lowly.

"Ah ha, indeed! You're here to die for being a lawless, illegal, piece of filth, no honor and no protection!" The sergeant said, unholstering his sidearm. "You shall die."

"Can I at least get a cigarette?" The newcomer asked.

The sergeant simply laughed as he chambered a round, and slowly brought the pistol to the prisoner's head. "Now." Ronnie said, and Weaver, the two time grand series pitcher, who had at least three perfect games pitched, took a rock, a smooth but heavy one that they had acquired for this very moment, and slung it with the force of Zeus himself, and struck the sergeant square in the nose. The man staggered back, waving his gun into the crowd and fired a single bullet.

And that's when all hell broke loose.

The newcomer seemed to get the idea, and took the shank he had been gifted earlier and, well, shanked the sergeant twice before grabbing his weapon. Vasko, who was hiding in the crowd, snuck up on another guard in the middle of the chaos, and simply snapped his neck, securing a nightstick as the lower enlisted didn't have sidearms inside the fences. The prisoners quickly either fled or attacked the guards, and the group made for their escape.

"Hey, Highlander!" Ronnie yelled as they broke away from the chaos. The newcomer picked up, and followed, and the group of four found a weak spot in the fences, a seam that hadn't been properly repaired and had thoroughly rusted through. With a little effort they had broken away from the prison, and made towards the hangars, not too far away. Shots were still echoing from the field, and as the group ran, there were a few that zipped past or struck near their heels.

"There! Right on schedule!" Ronnie said, as a C-7A pulled onto the runway, as one had been doing every morning for the last month. Full of material, likely, and not troops. You didn't fly troops off every morning, but there was always a constant need for ammo, vehicles, supplies. It was easy to board the plane, the rear cargo door was still open as they didn't plan on leaving anytime soon, despite pulling onto the runway.

Vasko and Weaver quickly dealt with a few very suprised members of the ground crew, while Ronnie pulled the newcomer onto the plane to secure it. After a brief scuttle with the loadmaster, Vasko and Weaver joined them. "The cockpit!" Ronnie ordered the two, before turning to the Newcomer, and relieving the man of his weapon. "I'll take that, you raise the cargo door!" She said. The plane started moving, and they went about their tasks.

"Lookout!" The newcomer shouted, as a MP boarded the taxing plane, weapon drawn, aimed at Ronnie.



Two figures dropped, the newcomer, who stepped in the way of an incoming bullet, and the MP, who Ronnie promptly shot in the head. "Fucking hell, he shot me!" The newcomer yelled, bleeding from his shoulder. "Vasko, first aid kit!" Ronnie yelled before raising the cargo ramp, and returning to the newcomers side. Vasko emerged from the cockpit as the plane left the ground, and took flight. It was a short flight to South Sotoa, but they'd be lucky to make it. "Hey, Highlander, what's your name?" She asked.


"I've got this." Vasko said, waving Ronnie off to go to the cockpit. "He'll be fine."

"Fuel?" She asked Weaver.

"Plenty." He replied. "What's going on back there?"

"New guy got shot. He should pull through, looked like a flesh wound."

"What are we carrying?" He asked.

"Looked like boxes marked as Air to Air munitions, likely headed to Seian." She replied. "A few crated marked as 5.56 too." She added. "Anything on radar? Comms?"

"Nothing on my scope, but the ATC is threatening us." Weaver answered.

"No AA is likely set up. And they can't scramble anything fast enough to catch us, close to the border as we are. We should be worried about the Sotoans if anything."

"We'll be fine." Weaver said. "We always end up fine anyways." He finished.

"Yeah. I told you this would work." She said, laughing. Weaver soon joined in.

They were finally free, at last.
Last edited by Tayner on Wed Jan 01, 2020 1:39 am, edited 1 time in total.
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The United Remnants of America
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Founded: Mar 09, 2013
Democratic Socialists

Frost Fall: Part 1

Postby The United Remnants of America » Sat Jun 25, 2022 10:56 pm

Image Major Aiden "Frosty" Kelly
Over The Atlantic Ocean
6/21/20XX - 14:09

"Children of Winter never grow old..."

Seven aircraft flew in loose formation, thirty thousand feet over the endless blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean. While nominally flying Perfanesian Air Force colors, only one of the planes was actually being piloted the Air Force. The Perfanesian C-130 in the center of the formation was, according to the briefing, carrying contents of a classified nature. That's how it always was, need-to-know, only play your part. That was just as fine, so long as they paid.

Aiden Kelly was Perfanesian himself, though a private citizen now, and he'd had a good working relationship with the Perfie Air Force for the last several years. Running as redfor in training exercises, patrol duties, escorts, he helped out where he could. It was easy money, and the money was good. Good enough his little merry band had expanded to quite the operation.

Around the C-130, flying in a loose defensive formation were 4 F-14Ds and 2 F/A-18Es. These weren't even all of the planes Aiden had built up over the years. What had originally started as a little group of pilots called Snowcat had expanded into a small company that Aiden had been able to run with the major support helping out the Perfie Air Force over the last few years, staying mostly out of the war. Despite the high death rate during the wars in the 1990s they'd participated in, Snowcat was now bigger than it ever was. It had even become a sort of family business for Aiden, once his sons had taken up the pilot's stick.

Aiden, flying one of the Super Hornets at the front-right position of the escort circle, looked over the briefing logs sitting on his thigh, using a grease marker to figure their position over the ocean. Based on the numbers...

Frosty: <<Alright, kiddies, mission track says we should be comin' up on that KC-135 for refuel any second now, so keep an eye out. How's everyone lookin'?>>

Hermes: <<We're fine, Major. We're not seeing the tanker yet, but we'll update you if it shows.>>

That was the C-130. Aiden thought they were nice chaps, if a little too stiff for his likes.

Panther: <<By my numbers, we should've seen him a minute or two back, so I hope he isn't too far out.>>

Liora "Panther" Cohen was one of Aiden's closest friends, and the second-in-command of Snowcat. An old war buddy, she was flying the other Super Hornet.

Logan: <<Gettin' close to fumes. What if there's no tanker?>>

Tobias: <<Then you get real good at swimmin'.>>

Those were Aiden's kids, flying the middle Tomcats. This wasn't their first mission, but they were still fresh pilots, learning the ropes.

Blister: <<Roughly forty minutes give or take.>>

Thumper: <<How do you have forty? I figure I got thirty-five!>>

Blister and Thumper were new additions to Snowcat, recommended to Aiden by fellow Snowcat pilot Jyri Rasimus. They'd seemed competent enough and had been flying for the last couple years with the squadron.

Aiden considered the responses and glanced at his own fuel. He didn't have much left either. Where the hell was that KC-135?

Panther: <<Hey, Frosty, I have a bogey, bearing in from 2-9-5, range 200 miles. Think it's our guy?>>

Frosty: <<Could be. Snowcat adjust course 2-9-5, we might have our refuel. Hermes, if you'd be willing to take a quit pitstop?>>

Hermes: <<Not like we have a choice, Major. You are our escort.>>

Aiden smiled to himself and refrained from asking if Hermes could readjust the stick up his ass during the pitstop. Soon enough, the signature of the unidentified aircraft came up on his own radar. Aiden briefly wondered why the aircraft hadn't identified itself yet, and why it wasn't broadcasting an IFF. That wasn't usual for these in-air refuelings. What the hell was this guy playing at?

Frosty: <<Unidentified aircraft. This is Perfanesian Air Force. Please identify.>>

While not technically a truthful statement, Aiden figured it carried more weight than identifying himself as a mercenary. Besides, they were acting on behalf of the Perfanesia. Aiden waited a few seconds, but the aircraft didn't respond. It's distance slowly declined.

Frosty: <<Unidentified aircraft. You are approachin' aircraft of the Perfanesian Air Force. Repeatin': Please identify yourself.>>

Unknown: <<You must be Frosty.>>

Frosty: <<What?>>

Unknown: <<Older voice, Perfanesian accent. Gotta be you. 'Major' Aiden Kelly of the famous Snowcat Squadron.>>

Panther: <<Who are you?>>

Unknown: <<And you must be Panther.>>

Aiden's neck began to prickle. This didn't feel right. Hermes called in privately to the squadron.

Hermes: <<Now detecting three more bogeys, same bearing as Bogey-1.>>

Frosty: <<Seems ya have me at a disadvantage. Ya guessed right, I'm Frosty. Who are ya and what are ya doin' out here? Where's our refuel?>>

Unknown: <<I'm sorry to inform you that there is no refuel. You won't be needing more fuel, actually. It's time for a harvest, Frosty. With Scythe in hand, Snowcat will be expunged from the skies. Please, do not resist, and do not hate me. This isn't personal, it's just something that needed to be done.>>

Frosty: <<Snowcat, this isn't looking good. Prepare for this getting wild soon.>>

Blister: <<Frosty, we're low on fuel, and we're only carrying, what, two Sidewinders each? You can't be serious.>>

Blister was right, of course, they weren't carrying a full combat load to save weight and go further without refuel. Everyone only had their cannons and a pair of AIM-9s. A light load, but they weren't unarmed. They had six aircraft, a numbers advantage, but they had the disadvantage of having Hermes. If these unknowns wanted to hit the transport, Snowcat would have to run interference.

Aiden didn't even want to acknowledge that without the KC-135, they were all fucked. Nobody had the fuel to turn around and go back home, and any limited fuel they had would be eaten up quickly if a fight was imminent. This was a final stand, and Aiden had a sense that someone had orchestrated this situation. Someone had betrayed them, manipulated events to make sure they didn't get out of this. Aiden's mind was racing with ideas to get them out of this. Meanwhile, the bogeys were still closing. He looked up and could just make out four metal glints in the sky.

Panther: <<Radar lock! They're lighting me up!>>

Frosty: <<Snowcat, break and engage the bogeys! Hermes, keep us between you and them.>>

Hermes: <<Copy.>>

Panther: <<Copy.>>

Unknown: <<I said don't resist. You're just going to delay the inevitable. Scythe, engage Snowcat as well as their escortee. I want them all out of the sky.>>
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