Lenn

 

“Canopy closing,” Lenn called out as the gold-tinted canopy descended over their heads, clamping shut with a little hiss. “Check seal,” Lenn said to Rei.

“Seal is good,” Rei reported, pressing buttons and flipping switches around him. “Engines one, two, and three are green. Four is still cranking.”

Their state-of-the-art fighter does not use old-fashioned jet engines. Instead, it uses rotating detonation engines—more efficient and powerful than the old jets, but have quite a delicate start-up process and are prone to damage.

“Standby for launch request,” Lenn said into his radio, reading from the mission briefing screen on the large display before him. “Streaker-Two.”

“Standing by for launch request, Control,” flight control replied.

They had barely gotten sleep before the general alarm sounded and they had to scramble. Their first mission with the 45th Heavy Fighter Squadron would be a search and destroy order for a European intruder somewhere at the border.

“Engine four is green, switching off APU. Trim for catapult launch, flaps auto, launch clamp down and locked, anti-skid off. Checklist complete, we’re ready to go,” Rei reported.

Lenn got on the radio once again. “Requesting launch on cat four-two. Streaker-Two,” he said, simultaneously flipping a switch on his dash to engage the catapult mechanism.

“Streaker-Two, permission granted, standby for catapult launch. Control.”

Again, the lights turned red, then green.

They pressed their heads against their seats as the dark interior of the hangar rushed away from them.

Lenn pulled his fighter away from the ground, before searching for the formation lights of his flight leader in the morning sky.

“Joining up on your eight o’clock. Streaker-two,” said Lenn into the radio, maneuvering his fighter behind his leader and entering a gentle climb.

“Copy. Climb angels forty and maintain mach one-point-eight. Set straight course for bullseye. Streaker-one,” his leader said back.

Together, they sped off toward an unseen spot beyond the horizon

Towards an enemy who just wanted to find the truth.

 

*****

 

One-six

 

They arrived at Valkyria in the early morning—the eastern horizon barely yellowed a dull grey by the rising sun. As they came down to land, they could see the familiar shape of the little town nestled deep in the undulating hills.

One-six felt the landing gears thump against the ground and heard the engines slowing down.

“We’re here,” Igor said as he left the cockpit. “Time for you four to go.”

“Thank you,” said Two-six as they got up to leave.

Igor led them to the rear cargo ramp, where he pressed a green button on the fuselage. The cargo ramp hinged downwards slowly, letting in a gust of chilly wind. Igor jogged down the ramp, taking in a deep breath of the fresh air.

Three men were standing outside, waiting for them, rifles pointed.

“Hands up!” The first guard shouted. “Get on your knees and do not resist!”

One-six and his teammates froze.

“What do we do?” Whispered Two-six.

“We run.”

They darted back into the cargo hold, dodging and weaving between the pallets of goods as gunfire erupted outside, bullets slashing through the cardboard and wood.

“How do they know?” Two-six asked as they crowded behind the innermost boxes.

“Igor sold us out for sure,” answered One-five as he drew his service pistol, being the only one of the four to have brought one along. “I know it.”

“We need to make a run for it,” said One-six as he peeked out of the windows and saw the guards beginning to encircle their plane. “One-five, provide covering fire.”

“Understood.”

“Get out through the side door, then into the trees,” One-six ordered his team. “From there we go straight to our plane.”

One-six threw open the little side door, pulling back quickly to allow One-five a clear line of fire.

With three clean rounds, the nearest guard went down, puffs of white ceramic powder thrown into the air by the bullet impacts on his ballistic vest. The empty casings jingled on the metal floor, smoking in the stale air.

Together, they leaped to the ground and ran for the tree line.

One-five fell behind slightly as he fired off round after round in the general direction of the guards, leaving him alone in the clearing.

Bullets zipped by, but One-five’s covering fire proved effective enough. Soon his magazine clicked empty, so he dropped it with a little flick, before throwing in another.

After emptying that magazine, One-five sprinted the final ten meters to the trees, diving headfirst over the bushes, rolling over his shoulder to lessen the impact.

“Which way?” One-six asked Two-six, who was already tapping away on her tablet.

“We’ll have to use GPS to navigate to the landing site. I don’t think there’s any other way.”

“Just use GPS, no plan C right now,” One-six reassured her.

Using GPS would reveal their position to the positioning network, possibly sabotaging their entire operation, but it was their last resort.

Two-six nodded, tapped her tablet a few more times, then got to her feet. “Follow me.”

 

*****

 

Lenn

 

“Streaker-One is experiencing mechanical issues and must return to base. Proceed with solo intercept mission. Over.”

“Copy, Streaker-Two.”

Their flight leader rolled to the right and peeled away, their bright exhaust fading into the distance.

“Guess we’re alone now, huh?” Kang asked somewhat sarcastically.

“Can’t help it,” Lenn replied. “The mechanics are gonna get a stern talking to after they get back.”

“They better!”

“Hey, be quiet,” Lenn snapped, raising his voice slightly.

Ying and Rei were both napping in preparation for the encounter with the enemy fighter, and he didn’t want to disturb them.

Throughout their flight, the morning sun had slowly crept back below the horizon. They fly much faster than the Earth rotates, and the day-night cycle often reverses when they’re in the air.

“It’s about time to wake them up anyway. Less than thirty minutes from predicted intercept point.”

“Good point.”

Kang gently tapped Rei and Ying on their legs. When neither woke up, he knocked on their shins slightly harder with his knuckles.

Rei sleepily raised his head and lifted his visor to rub his eyes. Ying did the same, although with a yawn added.

“Man your stations, time to intercept is thirty minutes,” Lenn told his crew.

Ying slapped her helmet a little to drive away her sleepiness and began searching the skies ahead using the radar and infrared camera.

Lenn looked around at his team, all sitting in their seats and busy with their stations. The rumbling of the engines was merely a dull hum through his headset—a hum that he got so used to hearing it was like a lullaby.

Sitting there, in the cockpit of his fighter with the rest of his team, cruising thousands of meters above ground at close to twice the speed of sound, he felt safe and at home.

He loved to fly. He loved to be in the sky with his team. He didn’t need the glory of fighting for his city nor the thrill of shooting down enemies. He just loved to soar high above the clouds.

“What even is our mission anyway?” Asked Ying, snapping Lenn out of his stream of thought.

“Reports of European intruders heading to Valkyria on a trading plane from New Asia, possibly spies,” Kang answered. “We are to transport hostages once they are captured on the ground, or intercept and destroy any hostile targets. We went through this during pre-flight…”

“Ah, I see…” she whispered, yawning again. “Sorry, must have forgotten.”

The sun was beginning to rise again, the valleys and hills below casting long, jagged shadows over the green landscape.

“Have you been to Valkyria?” Kang asked Lenn.

“No? Why would I have gone to Valkyria?”

Kang shrugged.

“Spike,” Ying whispered, indicating that their radar had found a target. “Interrogating.”

A yellow box appeared on the radar display, close to the ground and moving very slowly.

“Oh!” Kang called out as he stretched out his fingers and wiggled his shoulders. “Action is coming!”

“IFF reports hostile F-51,” whispered Ying. “Bandit locked.”

The yellow box turned into a red diamond.

“Do you want visual masking?” Rei asked Lenn.

“Keep that off for now,” Lenn replied.

“Copy.”

“Ying, launch on the bandit,” commanded Lenn, pushing their plane into a gentle dive. “We’re well within R-max.”

“Probability of kill is only thirty-six percent, though,” she argued.

“Just do it.”

“Fine. Fox three,” she whispered as their plane shuddered gently, and a flaming silver arrow shot out from below them.

 

*****

 

One-six

 

“We’re getting close,” Two-five said after a while of moving through the undergrowth. “A hundred meters according to GPS.”

Their fighter sat silently in the middle of a beautiful little meadow, the engines still and the computers asleep. Butterflies danced across the grey metal and polished surfaces covered in radar-absorbent paint. Leaves blown into the air during landing had settled on top of the wings and canopy, covering the plane in a thin layer of green, like an ancient sentinel who outlived its usefulness.

But the Europeans had no time to appreciate the scene as they came charging out of the trees, straight across the little clearing, up the ladder, and into the cockpit of the F-51.

“Starting up,” said One-six as he depressed a big green button on the side console.

The F-51’s startup sequence is fully automated, not requiring human input except for when errors or failures are detected. It usually takes around half a minute, enough time to don flight suits and helmets.

One-six felt weirdly comfortable after changing into his flight suit. The fabric is much heavier and tougher, but it felt familiar and somewhat homely. Then he strapped on his helmet, and the oxygen mask, then clicked the helmet-mounted display visor into place. Partway through the startup sequence, G-tolerance bags extended out of the sides of their seats, wrapping themselves around their torso and legs.

“Engines cranking,” Two-five reported.

A sharp drone began to sound as the engines started to spin, quickly increasing in volume until it became a roar.

“All engines in the green. Startup complete,” Two-five reported again as the displays came to life with shapes and numbers. “Your plane, One-six.”

“Copy,” answered One-six, pushing the throttles forward.

They sprang into the air with the expected agility of a modern fighter plane, the leaves that had settled on the wings and canopy blowing away in the wind.

“Inputting heading for return flight,” said Two-six, rapidly entering a series of numbers and commands on her display. “ETA…”

There was a ding.

One-six looked down at the radar warning receiver display on the center console.

“We’re being painted,” said Two-five.

“One-five, interrogate and identify,” One-six ordered, slamming the throttles to the firewall. “We’ll have to run.”

“Target hostile,” reported One-five. “JF-200, range unknown.”

They began to accelerate quickly as the thrusters rotated to their horizontal positions.

One-six looked at the displays again. The target was off of their starboard side, probably approaching very quickly.

“Can you find it on radar?” One-six asked.

“Working on…” One-five began but was cut off by a warbling alarm bell.

“Missile launched. Missile launched,” the mechanical voice spoke calmly.

One-six pushed his plane into a dive, hiding within the safety of the deep valleys. The beeping stopped as the mountains blocked them from the missile’s view.

“This valley has a right turn ahead. We can follow the valley to turn back into the bandit,” said Two-six, sending a simplified map onto One-six’s helmet visor.

“Copy.”

They smashed through the sound barrier as they sped towards the turn, a white shock cone surrounding their plane for a second as they did. For modern aircraft, the sound barrier is but a mere suggestion.

“Radar contact, thirty nautical miles,” One-five called out as they made the gradual turn, bringing their nose into the direction of the enemy. “Permission to launch?”

“Permission granted.”

“Fox three.”

A missile leaped off the rails and up into the morning sky, the bright exhaust flame morphing together with the glow of the rising sun.

Another ding sounded, and the beeping alarm began again.

“Missile launched. Missile launched.”

One-six rolled to the side and dove back into the cover of the valley, defending against the incoming missile. Having launched at a high and fast target from a low altitude, it was unlikely their missile would come close, but they had to throw something back at the bandit to prevent them from closing the distance too quickly.

“They’ll pressure us further into the valleys if we don’t break out,” warned Two-six. “We don’t have enough missiles to get through their defense matrix from down here.”

The advent of defense matrix technologies has drastically altered the way aerial combat is fought. The ability of an aircraft’s defense matrix usually dictates how it fights, how long it can fight, and how difficult it is to fight against. Unfortunately for them, the JF-200 definitely has the edge in defense matrix technology.

“We only have three more fox threes, and the rest are short-range,” Two-six added.

One-six thought for a moment.

“We’re going to the merge,” he stated.

“That’s very risky,” Two-five mumbled.

“It’s the only place where we have an advantage.”

The two steel birds closed, twisting and turning through the sky, their weapons hot and their engines aflame.

A choreography of missiles and cannons, a dance to the death.