|
Captain Patrick “Yellow 13” Roy
Monday, June 19, 2006
2300 hours local
New York State
I love the Su-37. It might not be as powerful as an ADF-01, or as fast as the MiG-25, or as maneuverable as the F-15S/MTD.
What it DOES have however, is the perfect combination of the three.
“Yellow Squadron, Skyeye here. You are approaching the target. Now remember that you’re heading to a civilian
area. Try to minimize collateral damage. Over.”
“Skyeye, Yellow 13, Ground attack AND collateral? What are you trying to do, make me go completely insane?”
“Yellow 13, Skyeye, YOU drew this mission, you fly this mission. Isn’t that how it goes?”
Well, he did have me there. I did draw this mission, even though it was a ground attack. You see, all the squadrons work on
a rotating basis, each squadron leader literally picking a mission slip out of a hat. It makes it fair, as no one knows what’s
a Ground Attack, Air-Superiority, Combat Air Patrol, Carrier Duty, or even sitting Alert Five.
“Yellow 13 to all, on final for bombing run. Target distance six kilometers.”
“Yellow 11 to Skyeye, I’m picking up heavy ECM.”
“ECCM! Restore data link!”
“Skyeye, Yellow 4. Data link restored, target is illuminated.”
“Target distance five kilometers!”
“Skyeye, Yellow 7, weather conditions worsening, we’d better step on it!”
“Target Distance four kilometers!”
“Skyeye, Yellow 21. Target in sight!”
“Yellow 13 here, More or less…”
“Target distance two kilometers!”
“Yellow 13 to Yellow Squadron, line up! Arm all bombs.”
“Target distance one kilometer!”
“Yellow 13 to Yellow Squadron, DROP NOW!”
The bombs released with a dull “bump-bump” noise. My plane, relived of some 4000 pounds of ordinance shot up into
the sky. I was faster, lighter and more maneuverable now.
“Yellow Squadron, Skyeye here. I’m picking up ten-no twelve-no a hell of a lot of Bug Fighters. You are cleared
to engage on sight!”
AH-HA! A real challenge now! But then, I was one of the greatest aces in the Soviet Union. The battle began in an abnormal
fashion. I lead my squadron and the bandits on my six over a Private Estate, and over a deep forest. Essentially, I was trying
to fake running away so as 1) I wouldn’t endanger civilian lives, 2) so that there was no chance of any more media coverage
then there already had to have been, and 3) so I would lure the bandits into a false sense of security. Yellow Squadron retreating
without a fight? Never happened.
I immediately did a Somersault maneuver and fired one of my sidewinders at the approaching Bug Fighter. The missile hit, and
I zoomed past him at better then Mach two. The other squadron members started firing a second after I did. After a few minuets,
all but one of the fighters where shot down. I started to gain on the fighter, and then it disappeared, shot onto my six,
and must have fired! My plane went savagely to the right and went into a spiral dive down, down, down to the deck. I somehow
got my controls to work a little, and I realized that I could belly-in for a crash landing. The shuddering arrived a few moments
later. Finally my plane hit the treetops at high subsonic speeds. I lurched upwards hard, the straps that normally kept me
in place snapped, and I hit my head on the Heads-Up-Display. I fought against the waves of pain, but failed and blacked out.
Elena Michaels
Tuesday, 20, 2006
0640 hours local
Stonehaven
During the night, I was woken up several times by some kind of fighter jet. I was almost relieved when the noise stopped.
I had watched some of the air battle, at least 14 planes where destroyed, six of those fell into the forest in a spiraling
dive, and four planes survived. I got dressed, went downstairs, and intercepted Jeremy who was on his way down to eat breakfast.
After we had all eaten, I started the early morning conversation.
“Jeremy, did you hear those fighters that passed over here last night?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he responded. “It was probably a training exercise though.”
“One with live rounds? I saw at least eight of the planes blow up, and six of them crashed.”
He considered that for a moment and said: “maybe it could have been the real thing. Let’s go in and look for survivors.”
We set out individually as wolves to make the search easier and faster, but even as a wolf, it was slow going. About four
kilometers into the forest, I saw the first chunk of debris; it looked like part of a tail fin. I looked up through the trees,
they where fairly undisturbed here, but getting more and more destroyed to the west. I started moving in that direction. Rule
number one of debris trails, the more you find, the closer you are to what you’re trying to find.
When I got to the crash site, I saw that the plane was-with the exception of all the chunks missing- was in remarkably good
shape. Not enough to ever have a hope in hell of getting airborne again, but more or less intact. I howled to let the others
know I found one of the six planes that went down. I started moving to the front of the plane. The emblem on the remaining
tail fin stated: “ERUSIAN 263RD FIGHTER SQUADRON. We will NOT falter. We will not surrender. We will prevail. YELLOW
SQUADRON.” And on the nose was a large number “013” emblazoned in yellow
Erusia? What the heck is Erusia? I thought.
After I made my way to the nose of the plane, I caught a whiff of something. At first, I thought it was jet fuel or something
like that, and then I realized that it was the pilot! Somehow, still alive after the crash-landing, but barely. I howled again,
this time, with a “HURRY UP!” tone. I changed back to human, and started to pull the Plexiglass canopy off. It
came loose with a gushing of some kind of hydraulic fluid. I pulled the pilot out of the cockpit as gently as I could. He
was about 6 feet tall, medium build, and (after I got his helmet off) pale blond hair, cut fairly short.
I quickly checked him over, looking for any broken bones, not knowing what I would do even if there where any. Jeremy was
the medical expert among us; I barely passed High School Biology.
Eventually, everyone came into the crash site, and helped me carry the pilot away. Jeremy ordered me to stay with the pilot
in case he woke up.
Captain “Yellow 13” Roy
2000 hours local
I woke up with everything hurting. My arms, legs, chest, head, everything. I fought the waves, and fished into one of my flight
suit pockets and pulled out a small survival pack. I opened it, and swallowed one of the antibiotic pills, and one of the
painkillers. Once everything stopped spinning, I started to work out where I was and think of what would happen later. Just
remember SERE school, and you’ll be fine Bird Dog. I thought. I looked on the floor, and saw someone in a sleeping bag.
The person’s head was obscured by part of the bed I was on.
“Hey, on the floor!” I yelled, with horsiness to my voice. The person on the floor woke up with a yelp of shock,
then one of pain as I herd the CLANG of bone hitting metal. I could tell from the voice that the person on the ground was
a woman.
Eventually, she must have gotten up and turned on the lights, because I was suddenly blinded by light. In reflex, I yanked
the sheets over my head and blinked hard for a few moments. Eventually, I could see well enough again, and pulled the sheets
off my head.
I saw the woman near my bed and I gave the usual spill before she asked. “Captain Patrick Roy, callsign: Bird Dog. Leader
of the 263rd Fighter Squadron. Service number, 3469-1458-3285.”
She looked at me blankly for a few seconds; as if that was the last thing she would have wanted to know. Which, I reminded
myself. IS the last thing they want to hear. They want information on missions, current intelligence, a list of superiors,
location of bases, weapons statistics, a list of your family and friends, and so on.
“Well, it looks like you’re conscience.” She said. “Just stay here and I’ll go get the others.”
“Wait,” I said. “First meeting usually warrant introductions.”
“My name is Elena Michles,” she said. “Now, just wait there, and I’ll be back.”
She didn’t return for nearly 15 minuets. When she came back, she was with four other guys.
“Hello,” the one in the lead said. “My name is Jeremy Danvers. I’m the owner of this house, and this,”
he pointed to one of the four people. “Is my adopted son Clayton and these” he shifted his finger to the remaining
two people. “Are my friends Antonio Sorrento and his son Nick.”
“Nice to meet, you all.” I said, waiting for the interrogations to start. We started talking about various topics,
from the Soviet political policies, to my war stories, but generally staying away from anything near and dear to me. Eventually,
they left, and I went to sleep.
I sure as hell wasn’t awake when the teeth sank in. I bolted awake, trying to see what was attacking me, but it was
too dark. I formed a fist with my good hand and threw a roundhouse punch in the general direction of my attacker. I herd a
dog-like yelp of pain, and the teeth released my other arm. I went into another of my flight suit’s pockets, pulled
out a silenced Uzi machine gun and fired. The muzzle flashes illuminated the target. It was a wolf, and a big motherfucker
of one at that. A few of the shots hit, stitching the target in a horizontal line with bloody explosions. The reason I went
in a line is because I was trained to do that, and because that would insure that I would get hot lead into at least some
body parts that where either vital, or relatively unarmored.
The wolf eventually fell, I guess it died. I felt oddly warm, almost like the feeling of a good, well-earned kill. The kind
of kill I get during training dogfights with Mobius 1 and I manage to shoot him down. Then, without even the slightest warning,
I went ramrod stiff, and blacked out more completely then in all my life.
Chapter 3
|
