Thirty Seconds Over To-ki-rin
27 July 1956 YOM, To-ki-rin, territory held by the Pony's Liberation Army of the Ponies' Democratic Republic of Kia, commonly referred to as “Norkia”
The attack was already underway when the 121st “Basilisks” Naval Attack Squadron came screaming out of the east.
The 129th “Hydras” NAS, their rivals from the carrier Benton, had just swooped into their strafing runs. White and gray smoke poured from the tiny dimples of anti-aircraft gun emplacements; bigger clouds puffed into being in midair, as if placed there by magic. Little silver model Amareican P86 Sabre airplanes, riding faint contrails, were diving toward the guns. The puffs seemed to be playing with them, straddling them. It all seemed in good sport.
Then one appeared right next to a model airplane. The model shuddered on its course, as if someone were shaking the model on the string from which it was suspended. Two more puffs straddled it closely. Flame flickered from the model, followed by a trail of black smoke.
Lt. Dusk Skyshine took in his breath sharply as the sight. Abort your run, abort! he cried out inside his mind, knowing how futile it would be even if he was on the frequency of the 129th. The Sabre had been hit at least three times, shrapnel would have torn through the fuselage, fuel tanks, maybe engine. Possibly – the thought bothered him – right through the cockpit. The pilot might already be dead or dying.
The plane continued on, as if that pilot was committed to his course. But no bomb detached, no rockets fired, there was no sign of cannons. Only the streak of smoke that continued going down as its flight-mates pulled up to avoid colliding into the hill ahead. Dusk had not seen the other Sabres fire, but balls of smoke roiled from the vicinity of a gun emplacement as the fighters clawed for altitude.
The stricken plane streaked on in its straight course. Pull up! Dusk mentally urged, but the Sabres did not deviate until its right wing, then its left suddenly separated, and the burning ballistic projectile that Dusk hoped now had no live pony aboard ended its trajectory to fireball against a small stand of trees on the hill. A moment later bigger explosions blew the stand to matchwood as the Sabre’s ordnance went off. If there had been life in that cockpit before, it was definitely no more.
Dusk winced. That could have been me, came the unworthy thought. Then he snapped his own mind to attention. That will be me, if I keep fixating, he reminded himself. His jaw firmed, teeth unconsciously baring into a semi-snarl. Got to keep cool – that’s the only way I’m coming home to Moony.
His radio crackled. It was Lt. Commander Brightstar, the squadron leader.
“Blue One to all Hydras, form attack column on flight leaders in Blue-Red-Green order. Target is heavy flak batteries in grid C-7. We will attack on my mark.”
Dusk, as Green Flight leader, maneuvered well behind Red One, checking to make sure that the Greens were positioning themselves in diamond on him. He glanced over his left shoulder. Dash Firehooves, his wingmate and best friend, was in position. Ready as always, Dusk thought. They don’t come braver than that one.
Then he glanced over his right shoulder. Drop Newleaf was drifting a bit too far to the right, and her own wingmate forming on her was too far right as well.
“Green One to Green Three,” he said tersely. “Tighten formation.” It’ll get loose enough when we have to jink, he could have added, but knew he could save the lecture for later.
This will be a tricky run, he thought. If Blue and Red Flights hit, we’ll have to pick our targets out from the smoke to avoid wasting our shots. If they don’t, we’re going to be diving into some pretty heavy fire. Either way, we’ll have problems.
“Blue One to all Hydras,” came the voice of Brightstar. “Target area clear of friendlies. Will commence attack run, follow me at modified intervals.” At the pre-strike briefing, they had agreed to increase their flight separation by 500 yards, to throw off any Nork gunners who had gotten used to the standard pattern. “On my mark: three, two, mark!”
Blue Flight dove.
Dusk could only devote a small part of his attention to their battle. The larger part was keeping track of the intervals between himself and Red One, and making sure that the Greens were all keeping in formation. Timing would be important, to saturate the Nork defenders.
Flak started popping ahead of Blue Flight.
Red Flight dove.
“Green One t'all Greens, attack on mah go: three, two, go!” said Dusk, trying as best he could to keep his voice steady as he throttled to military and shoved the stick forward. He kept an eye on the air speed indicator – the Sabre was not designed to be supersonic, and could shed its wings in an overenthusiastic dive. There was really no good place for that to happen, but over enemy territory was definitely on the list of worst places for such an event.
He felt a rush course through him. He shuddered in near-ecstasy. Fear was gone, replaced by a cold calculus of probabilities. Time slowed for him.
He merged with his machine. His kinesthetic sense, his view through the Perspex, the cockpit gauges: all became a seamless whole of knowledge that meshed into tactical awareness.
It was all, suddenly, easy. He and the Sabre were one, and the Norks nothing but a problem to be solved.
He was lead so would be the first target of most of those guns. His awareness flicked forward, and he saw that Blue Flight had come through intact, maybe one damaged; Red Flight also okay. The Norks must have been shaken up by Hydra Squadron; now it was up to Basilisk to finish the job.
Many of the gun emplacements had been replaced by pits of fire coughing dirty black smoke into the sky. Their crews and weapons had been neutralized (that was the word he preferred when in this mental zone). He saw the intact guns in the northwest sector of the target area. If they survived they could shoot down the clumsy bombers that were to drop the bridges. Those guns were Green Flight’s job.
“Greens, target the guns ahead and starboard!” Soon he would have no more time for talk, and for the rest of the thirty seconds of this attack run, each Green pilot would effectively be fighting alone.
A cotton ball materialized below, ahead and to the left. Flak. His mind swiftly calculated probabilities. Next ones will be long. he jinked left, flying past the cloud. Something rattled off his underside, apparently doing no real harm. More cotton balls popped right and aft of his Sabre. Those were farther off, and he felt no more hail.
Now to throw them, he thought coolly, as if this were just the next step of some maintenance procedure. He pushed the stick slightly forward, throttled back a tiny bit. A thicket of flak burst above and in front, right where he would have been.
Dusk pulled up, throttled forward. He was now right on a line approaching the first gun battery. Flak burst below and behind. Ahead light sparked from smaller cannons and tracers climbed toward his position.
Dusk armed a rocket pod, dipped his nose, and fired. His Sabre shuddered to a momentarily-uncompensated shift in its balance as 5.75” artillery rockets streaked towards the automatic emplacements. As the last one left its tube he was already coming up again, pointing his nose at the heavy guns.
A small part of his mind was aware of the rockets hitting, bursting in the Nork gun pits, of automatic cannons flying into the air in smoke and flame along with bits of trucks and equipment and horribly-incomplete things that might once have been of equine form. Time enough to remember that later, in his nightmares. His job was far from done.
His nose had risen and the first heavy battery was right ahead and in range now! He shot his second pod dry, then squeezed the trigger on his six .50-caliber machine guns. The rockets blasted gun carriages apart, overpressures no doubt shattering delicate sighting equipment. The mix of solid and incendiary bullets he had loaded tore through ammo wagons, raising fireballs of secondary explosions.
He felt unstoppable. He was pony no longer, but some impossible chimeric creature bringing death from above. The Sabre was his wings; its weapons his hell-spitting horn, and the Norks nothing but vermin to be trampled under his hooves.
Dusk turned slightly as he streaked through the smoke cloud, aiming for a second emplacement beyond the first. His eidetic positional memory served him well, as he found his nose pointed directly at the second target. Machine guns frantically tried to track him, but his crossing speed was too great, and not even a single bullet struck the Sabre. The flak guns rotated, but there was simply not enough time left in the lives of the Nork crew.
His hoof pressed the trigger. The Sabre staggered in midair as 120 rounds per second streaked forward, spraying the gun pit. The twin anti-aircraft guns crumpled in on themselves at the sheer weight of metal, the ponies crewing them flung back by the momentum of the steel-jacketed bullets tearing them to bloody rags no I am not seeing that and then the incendiaries found the stacked shells and the pit disappeared in a volcano of fire.
At the last possible moment Dusk rammed to full throttle and turned, avoiding flying right through that smoke cloud and its hidden load of potentially-deadly shrapnel. Below him tracers swept and flak burst, but there was no gunner and no radar sight in existence which could have accurately predicted his course, nor trained the gun fast enough to track his rapidly-crossing target.
Dusk soared into the skies, free and clear, the Nork positions dropping away swiftly behind the howl of 5000 pounds of turbojet-fuelled thrust from the Sabre’s engine. Behind him rose secondary explosions, and the blasts from the rockets of his flight-mates as they carried out their own strikes. He watched with relief as first one, then another, then the last rose clear of the roiling chaos the Sabres had made of the enemy position, climbing to join him.
Then he frowned. One of the silver birds coughed a trail of black smoke.
“Green Two, I’m hit,” came the voice of Dash. He was calm, his tone professional.
“Green One to Two, how bad the damage?” Dusk replied, similarly professional. He was worried, though. Dash only got completely professional when things got dangerous.
“Ah, I’ve got a fuel leak from my starboard tank, maybe a bit of fire in the fuel line. Mm, fire suppressor not working.” The trail of black smoke thickened. “Cutting out starboard fuel pump.” The trail thinned, grayed.
“Ah’m a-comin' up on your three,” Dusk informed his friend – it was important to let the other pilot know from exactly where he was approaching. He closed to within 50 yards of the stricken Sabre: close enough to see the damage, but far enough away to pull out if Dash suffered a controls failure.
He could plainly see the mist streaming from starboard. What bothered him was that he thought he could see more mist streaming from elsewhere. He ascended slightly, and yes – there was another, though thinner, trail from under the port wing.
“Dash, you’ve got two busted fuel tanks. You can’t make the ship.”
“Roger that,” replied Dash. There was only a slight tremor in his tone, as he received what might be his death sentence.
Dusk’s mind raced. He had left the zone of omnipotence; now he quickly forced himself back in there. He knew Dash’s life depended on a miracle.
He quickly ascertained the flight’s position by glancing at landmarks. This was not preferred air-navigational technique, but he didn’t have time to do formal calculations. Then, a succession of maps swiftly flashed through his mind.
There was only one possibility.
“Green One to Green Three. Take your element back to the ship. Green Two course 175, Ah’m leading you in to Goose Down airstrip.”
“Roger, Green One,” came the confirmation from Green Three.
“Roger, Green One,” from Dash. They began turning onto the new course Then “Where’s Goose Down?”
“Small strip,” Dusk said. “Mostly light recon jobs.”
“Jet rated?” asked Dash.
“Afraid not,” Dusk said. “Look at it this way. We’ll be the first jets to land there. We can make history.”
“Well,” said Dash. “I for one am excited to be a part of making history.”
The miles of Nork territory unrolled beneath their aircraft. Dusk was glad that the Norkian air force was mostly shot down or hiding: the Western League had obtained local air supremacy before launching the raid on To-ki-rin. Consulting his mental map of Nork airbases, he saw that it was very unlikely that they could vector any interceptors against them. This was good, because if Dusk had to fight, he might run out of fuel. And if Dash had to maneuver, Dash might run out of airplane.
Dash gave Dusk regular status reports. Dusk was doing this as much for Dash’s benefit as his own. There was something wrong with Dusk’s voice. As they closed on the airstrip, Dusk noticed that Dash’s voice was becoming a little muzzy.
“Two, what’s your fuel status now?” Dusk asked for the twentieth time..
Silence.
“Dash, Ah need to know your fuel.”
More silence.
“Dash? Dash?”
No answer.
Dash’s Sabre was still flying well, or about as well as it was going to fly after taking at least two penetrating shrapnel hits. Actually, the fuel line damage would have only very minor effects on the jet’s flight characteristics – until, of course, the plane ran dry and its engine became so much dead weight on a glider.
Dusk eased up as close to Dash’s starboard side, inspected his friend’s airplane. Was there damage he hadn’t seen before?
Scanned the side. No missed damage. Eased down to inspect the ventral surfaces. No damage there.
But he noticed that Dash’s head seemed slumped backward. Not forward, as he would have expected had Dash gone unconscious, but arched backward, as if Dash was under some immense physical stress.
He’s hurt, Dusk realized. Maybe badly. Not out yet, but barely able to remain conscious. But how?
He throttled back, then came back up on the port side. This time he inspected the cockpit carefully. And he saw it.
There was a jagged hole low in the Perspex bubble.
How’d I miss that? he briefly wondered. Any number of scenarios flashed through his mind, the most obvious ones being that he had been looking for damage in places other than the cockpit, or that the slipstream had widened an existing hole.
He’s been hit, Dusk confirmed. Probably took one to the torso. Oh, damn. He’s probably close to fainting from blood loss. Damn, damn, damn. Does he have even a chance of landing in that condition?
We’re over our own territory now, Dusk thought. A bit rugged, but more survivable than trying to set down on a short strip with a body wound. He’s got to bail out.
First things first. Get his attention!
He tried the radio a few times, but Dash wasn’t answering. He tried hoof and head signals, but Dash wasn’t paying attention.
He thought a moment. There was one thing he could do – a bit dangerous, but all the choices further down his list were even more dangerous.
He dropped back, then throttled forward and streaked close over the top of Dash’s Sabre at high speed.
“What the -- !” came the startled shout over the radio. “Dusk, what are you doing?”
“Dash!” Dusk cried out in undisguised joy. Then, more professionally. “Ah, Dash, you need to bail out.”
“What about my ship?” Dash asked.
“To Tambelon with your ship!” Dusk shouted. “Dashie, if'n you try to land now, you’re going to crash anyway, and the US Naval Air Force will lose a P-86 Sabre and a Dash Firehooves. And the second one is less replaceable!"
“Ah … Roger that, One,” replied Dash. A pause. “Sorry, I’ve got a problem. Ejection seat not functional.” A longer pause. “Another problem. Canopy is jammed. Looks like I will be riding the ship in.”
Think, Dusk, think.
“Roger that, Two,” said Dusk. “Can you kick the canopy off? Request your status …”
“Ship is running on fumes. I’m not getting any fuel reading, but that’s got to be the gauges because my engine’s still lit. Pilot is hit pretty bad, One,” said Dash. “Took a shell through my body. Dud … that’s why I’m still here … but I think it hit a lung. So I’m running on fumes too. Canopy’s jammed pretty tight, and I think I am going to faint if I try to do what you suggested. I’m sorry, Dusk, I’m all out of options here.”
Something was blurring Dusk’s vision. He wiped his goggles, then under them, and realized with a shock that it was tears.
No! he told himself savagely. Not now! Dashie’s still alive! He needs you!
He had an idea. It was a really, really bad idea, but unfortunately it was the best his desperate mind could draw out of the pile of even worse options.
“Two, I’m going to lead you in to the strip. You’re going to come in right behind me, ride my stream, until our altitude’s at a hundred feet. Then I’m going to pull up and turn away, while you make your landing. Do you copy?”
“Roger, One … but … wait … how will you …?"
“Do you copy the plan?”
Dusk heard Dash gulp. At least he hoped it was a gulp, rather than Dashie’s lungs collapsing. There was silence, then
“Roger, One. Copy and will execute. Over and out.”
Dusk put his Sabre in the lead. Its wings and fuselage cut the air, cleaving a path for Dash to follow. There was only a very small space in which the air was calm enough – if Dash made a mistake, Dash would either fall into a zone of turbulence, possibly losing control – or, worse, overcorrect forward, crashing right into the aft end of Dusk’s own fighter.
Dash found the sweet spot, and rode it.
He’s a damn good pilot, thought Dusk. Not one in ten could do what he’s doing. But … can he keep doing it while his body’s failing around him?
Then Dusk rigorously squelched the thought. Doubts were useless: they were committed to this insane attempt. Either both would land alive, or neither.
Dusk had already announced an emergency, now he explained his plan to the tower. The tower rejected it. He informed them of where they could put their rejection. He continued the approach.
The strip grew before them. Dusk watched the airspeed indicator, the altimeter, drank in the world around him, felt his airplane through his rump and belly on the control couch. His world shrank to this approach.
He was on the precise glide path he needed for this. One hundred feet! He throttled up, his engine screaming as he climbed and turned away to starboard. It was all up to Dash, now. He craned his neck around to starboard and rear, but he could not see what was happening on the strip; his own wing and tail blocked his view. He continued the turn – he had enough fuel to line up for another approach, and he wanted to see for himself what was happening.
He sighted Dash’s jet just as it began to brake. There was something wrong. He could see a trail of flame on the runway. Dash’s other fuel line, the one which had the minor leak, had burst completely under the stress of landing. When it had almost come to a stop, something went wrong. Dash’s fighter slewed to port, started to roll to starboard, snapped its starboard wing completely off, then fell back down on its port side, in the process breaking its other wing. Flames and smoke engulfed the port and rear of the stricken fighter.
Ponies in jeeps and trucks were rushing onto the field. Streams of carbon dioxide foam sprayed the burning fighter. There was an ambulance, and more ponies rushing out, breaking open the cockpit, pulling forth a limp form. They had Dash. Dusk just hoped he was alive.
“We have your pony,” came the word from the tower. “He’s wounded, but we think he’ll live.”
“How long to clear the strip?” Dusk asked.
“Ten minutes.”
Dusk checked his fuel gauges. His recent maneuver had depleted his tanks more than he’d have liked at this point, but he had enough fuel to land safely, provided he did it on the first attempt.
He orbited the field a few times, then brought the Sabre around in a racetrack oval and went into approach again. It was perfectly executed, and it should have been the best landing possible on such a short strip.
It was not the fault of Lt. Dusk Skyshine that Nork flak had shredded his landing gear, or that the system status light which should have warned him of this occurrence had also been taken out by that damage. His first intimation of the problem was when his wheels touched tarmac once … twice … and then promptly collapsed right underneath him.
He performed the best belly-landing equinely possible.
It was not quite enough.
The Sabre slewed to port, then to starboard as he overcorrected, and then pitched up on its nose and port wing. Dusk heard the scream and snap of overstressed metal failing; then the wing tore clean off.
At least I didn’t run out of strip, came Dusk’s absurd thought of self-congratulation, and then his plane just managed to avoid rolling completely over. It ran out of momentum just before passing the tipping point, and instead fell back down, hard, on its belly.
This time Dusk heard the snaps of his left hind tibia and fibia, and the scream that then came forth had little to do with overstressed metal, instead issuing from his own mouth. He hung in his straps in agony, wondering why no adrenal rush had numbed it as he had heard was the normal case with wounds, and thought this the worst pain he had ever known …
… until the medics dragged him out of his cockpit. Dusk screamed even more loudly as the bones in his leg flexed again. They put him on a stretcher and raced him away from his smouldering airplane. Dusk could see the burning hulk of Dash’s plane just to the side of the field. His last thought was,
Wow. Dashie and I really left them with a mess here,
before the needle found his vein and the sweet kiss of morphine took away first his pain and then his consciousness.
Article in the Manehattan Times, July 20th, 1956
Allied forces airstrikes three days ago successfully destroyed the key bridges at To-ki-rin in Norkia on the Yon River. These strikes have cut off the supplies to the spearhead enemy forces. US Army General Ridge Runner reports that enemy attacks have slackened and their main offensive appears to have bogged down. Allied forces today began flanking attacks which threaten to completely cut off enemy armored units …
Text of a letter from the US War Department to Moondreamer Skyshine
Dear Mrs. Skyshine,
This is to inform you that your husband, USNAF Lt. Dusk Skyshine, was wounded in action on July 17th, 1956. He is presently recuperating in the care of the US Army Medical Corps. His condition is good, and he is expected to make a full recovery.
Sincerely Yours,
Commander Cloud Mason,
United States Navy
Text of a letter from the US War Department to Silver Firehooves
Dear Mr. Firehooves
This is to inform you that your son, USNAF Lt. (j.g.) Dash Firehooves, was wounded in action on July 17th, 1956. He is presently recuperating care of the US Army Medical Corps. His condition is guarded but he is expected to make a recovery.
Sincerely Yours,
Commander Cloud Mason,
United States Navy
END.
Author's Note
YOM = “Year of Megan,” the Savior-Goddess Whose Advent began the Second Age of Ponykind. This places the action in the late Age of Wonders, around 4070 years before the Return of Luna in the Fourth Age of Ponykind.
Some explanations may be due to anyone reading this who has not read my other stories in this continuity, particularly Nightmares Are Tragic
This story directly stars earlier incarnations of two G4 ponies, Twilight Sparkle (who was Dusk Skyshine) and Rainbow Dash (who was Dash Firehooves). A third G4 character is mentioned, as you'll be aware if you read my other stories.
Pony history is generally not as bloody as ours. This time was one of the exceptions to that rule. The time 4000 and more years ago was an Age of Wonders, all right. It was also occasionally an Age of Horrors. This was one of them.
Despite the obvious analogues (and the Michener references), this was not the Korean War. The Amareican P-86 Sabres are not precisely American F-86 Sabres. I'm perfectly aware that our Korean War was fought from 1950 through 1953. This is not the same war, though it is similar.
This is very much a departure from the normal MLP story, even the normal one set in G2, which was a nastier society than Equestria's.
I hope it doesn't bother you all too much. I guarantee that it will be giving Dusk Skyshine nightmares for the rest of his life. And beyond.
Peace. Seriously.
