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Chapter two
“Well buddy, it’s nice to see you remember me,” he said, calmly as if the last time we met we weren’t
trying to kill each other.
“What the fuck are you doing here!?” I said, lowering my voice so as not to attract any more stares.
“What am I doing here? What are YOU doing here?” he asked.
“I’m-” I stopped, not willing to let his friendliness wear off on me again. “Why am I even talking
to you? You tried to kill me! You tried to kill everyone on the PLANET!”
“Ouch. Okay, I deserved that.” A hell of a lot more then that! I thought. “But, I was… okay, confused.
I didn’t know who I was fighting anymore, and… well, I thought I’d be easier to fight everyone at the same
time and not get confused so easily.”
“So… what do you want? You want me to forgive you or something?”
“No, not really. I know you won’t anyways. I’m here because apparently those Soviet Union guys, they’re
in a war right now, and they’re practically crying for experienced pilots. I thought I’d go sign myself up. So,
Buddy, why are you here?”
I shrugged. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on here. Did you hear about the new war? Osea against
Yuktobania? I thought they where allies!”
He nodded. “Yeah, I did hear about that. But that’s over now, right? It was Belka that was behind the whole thing.”
I had heard something like that on the news, but I dismissed it. I knew from experience that in times of war, the media often
told the public one thing, even through the complete opposite was happening.
One of the many base personnel came towards us, and asked: “do you two need some help?”
Pixy nodded, and said: “Where’s the recruitment tent for the Soviet Union?”
The solider pointed to the north, and said: “Big tent with a hammer and Sickle in yellow on it with a red background.
You can’t miss it.” He then looked at me and said: “have we met before? You look familiar.”
I always tried to keep a low profile; in fact, I had even gone so far as to have slight plastic surgery and a name change.
I shook my head and said: “No, I’m sorry but I’ve never seen you before in my life. I guess I just have
one of those faces.”
The solider went away and Pixy and I started walking to the Soviet recruitment tent. Along the way, he asked: “What
was that about?”
“I try to keep a low profile so as not to get any celebrity status. I need my privacy, you know. I don’t want
to make a big deal out of what I did in the Belkan War.”
“You ‘don’t want to make a ‘big deal’ out of it? You single-handedly ended the Belkan War! You
stopped A World With No Boundaries, AND you shot me down!”
I shook my head, and corrected him. “I didn’t end the Belkan War single-handedly. You where there! PJ, God rest
his soul, was there too! The only thing I did by myself was shoot you down, you know this!”
We began a friendly argument as to what had more effect on the outcome of the Belkan War, just me flying around, or was it
the fact that my Wingmen helped me out in almost every mission I flew. I kept insisting that it was the help I got from him,
and PJ, while he was fixed in his opinion that it was just me and nobody else that made me the Demon Lord.
We continued this, and despite my best efforts, I found myself liking him again as a friend. Once we got to the recruitment
tent, we both signed up, and we were told that we would be starting our training at 0500 Hours tomorrow.
I checked the names of all the people on that list. A few where familiar, but I couldn’t place them.
The list went like this:
Detlef Fleisher
Neil Sokoloski
Bernard Schmidt
Guy Glaspie
Rainer Altman
Jamie Lomonaco
Kurt Rafael
Dominic Zubov
Marni Laperuta
Erich Hillenbrand
Joshua Bristow
Benito Laufenberg
Reed Hassey
I tried to remember where I had heard those names before, but I was at a loss. I can’t remember names too well. Faces,
no problem, I can do that easily. Names… not so much. Allenfort was being used mostly now as a base to train pilots
along with Rigely Airbase on the mainland. Once I went into the Mess Hall, I saw a lot of newbie pilots in there, as well
as a few that looked like they had some experience with them.
I got something to eat on my tray and sat down next to a group of experienced pilots. They all wore the same drab olive colour
flight suits, and they seemed to be talking about the air battles they had.
The one that was telling his story had an Eastern Belkan accent (British), and I thought he sounded familiar.
“So there I was,” he said. “We all looked at the two lone mercenaries, and thought the same thing: ‘this
is really happenin’.’ I squinted to confirm the situation; I checked the air currents, his plane, his manoeuvres,
and his remainin’ ammo. I figured I could do it, and the four of us went to engage these guys.
They each shot off a pair of XLAAs, and we started manoeuvrin’. Those missiles where shaken off, but all of a sudden,
bang! One of my squadron mates was down. Bang! Another one down. We got serious after that, but they still outmanoeuvred us
beyond my expectation. So, how ‘bout you? How’d you get shot down by the Demon Lord, Bristow?”
The new guy, a person that looked like he had been in jail for some time, began his story on how he was shot down. Then another
and another until almost everyone at the table were finished.
Almost. There was still Pixy and me when everyone else had had their turn. Pixy began his story of how I shot him down over
Avalon Dam after he had launched the V2 Nuclear Missile. But I admired the fact that he refused to point out that the ‘Demon
Lord’ was right next to them.
When it came to my turn, I said: “well, I don’t think I could possibly top THAT,” referring to Pixy’s
recounting.
“Aww, come on!” Erich Hillenbrand said. “We want to hear how you got shot down by him! You look old enough
to be around when he was, and you also look like a fighter pilot.”
“Well, you see the thing about that…” I said, but was interrupted by Pixy.
“Look guys, Malcolm’s not up to talking right now, so maybe we should just drop it.”
I mentally breathed a sigh of relief. Pixy had just saved my hide from busting my cover, which I had worked so hard to get,
wide open.
To my surprise, they did, and went to talk about the other air battles they had. The ones not against me, but against other
pilots. Once everyone was finished eating and left, I said to Pixy: “Thanks for saving my bacon back there. I really
appreacte it if no one knows who I am.”
He waved his hand, dismissing it, and said: “No problem, but if I were you, I’d start thinking of something to
tell them, and fast. And also to explain how good you are tomorrow.”
I made a sour face, and said: “I’ll try to go easy on everybody.”
“Not just easy, fly like a completely different person. Even after this long, they’re bound to recognize your
manoeuvres.” He paused, and said: “Call my crazy, but that Eastern Belkan guy, I think that was Grun 1. Remember?
From the Round Table?”
I thought about that, then: “hey, yeah, you’re right! Damn, I never expected that.”
Okay, I know what you’re thinking: if I was smart enough to recognize that that group was talking about me, but I couldn’t
remember who they where, there are a few reasons for that.
First, I shot down A LOT of people in the Belkan War. AT LEAST somewhere in the thousands, I can’t be expected to remember
every single pilot. And second, we went by callsigns up there. I never heard the Pilot’s actual names.
So really, all I had to go on was a voice slightly distorted by a radio. That’s not much to go on when you’re
meeting a former enemy ace on the ground.
I went to my new quarters, and saw that everything was still the same: same almost Spartan room with only a desk, lamp and
a bed, same pristine smell that seemed to be perpetually stuck there, same flat grey paint scheme for the walls and room,
same everything.
I tossed my overnight bag I had gotten from my car at the foot of the bed, and went to the desk and opened the drawers to
see if the prior occupant of this room had left anything behind. Either I was in luck, or the Soviets had guessed that I’d
look there because there was a book on ACM (Air Combat Manoeuvring) there.
Well, a little refresher couldn’t hurt. I thought, and I stated to read it. I was mentally retracing the Split-S Manoeuvre
when someone knocked on the door. I got up and answered it. Waiting for me was a woman with jet black hair, and, like everyone
else, a drab olive colour flight suit. She looked Erusian. (Greek)
“Hello, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.” She was definitely Erusian.
I shrugged, and said: “I’m fine, but this is weird.”
“What is?”
“This whole setup the Soviets got here. I’m seeing people from all over the world here in one room and everyone’s
getting along.”
She laughed, and said: “where have you been for the past year? The war’s over! Everybody’s getting along
just fine now.” She paused, and then said: “you know, you look familiar, have we met before?”
I shook my head, and said: “oh no, I’ve just got one of those faces.” Damn, did EVERYBODY know who I was?
The woman suddenly looked embarrassed, and said: “I’m sorry, where are my manners?” she held her hand out
and said: “I’m Sarah Nakano, but you can just call me ‘Tomboy’. Everybody else does.”
I shook it and said: “Malcolm Nurburg, you can call me Cypher, with a ‘y’.”
I’m not good at making up callsigns, so I just added a little change to my usual one, and nobody knew the difference.
Besides, some people used the slightly modified callsigns of other war heroes like Ofnir, Grabacr, Mobius 1, and Blaze. I
suppose they want to make themselves feel like an ace, but I don’t know.
“Pleased to meet you, Cypher, and don’t worry, tomorrow’s going to be a big day for you. You better rest
up, and prepare yourself.” Tomboy said, before leaving.
Prepare myself for WHAT? I asked myself, not knowing what exactly was going on here. I shook my head, went back inside my
quarters, and started to read the ACM book again.
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