“Citizens of Wingbardy - A solemn hour is about to strike in the history of the country. Twenty million griffons are at this moment gathered in the squares of all Wingbardy. It is the greatest demonstration that griffon history records. eighteen millions, one heart alone, one will alone. Citizens of Wingbardy -our great griffon nation finds itself again facing the specter of oppression from without! For too long, the pony regime in New Mareland has subjected thousands of griffon descendants living within their borders to discrimination and violence. Their nationalist mobs attack innocent civilians while authorities turn a blind eye. But today we say no more! The Griffons of New Mareland are our brothers - their cause is our cause. And we must defend them when called to stand for justice! Yes the international community whispers about Wingbardian aggression and conquest. They would deny our historical ties and security imperatives! But as your Duce, I cannot sleep knowing our diaspora suffers shamefully under tyrannical alicorn's hoof - regardless of what distant diplomats prefer to believe. The time has come to act with strength and conviction. Our cause is right! The gods of our ancestors demand we extend our shield - and we shall not flinch from this solemn duty lest none be left to shield us in darker days' potential ahead."
“…we make M.A.R.E.S.O.C a proposal of cooperation on the following basis: make war together, make peace together, generous financial support, and an understanding on our part that to reconquer any territory in New Mareland a reciprocal war with the Karthinian Pact. Once this deal is finalized, any Commonwealth of New Mareland assets you find must be transferred to the Kingdom of Wingbrady, or the agreement will be nullified. The settlement in detail is left to you. You will inform your leader of the above most secretly…”
“That’s enough, Colonel.” A brown-haired man with oval glasses said as he rubbed his fingers between his eyes. He wore a black blazer, slacks, a green tie, and a white undercoat. His face bore the sentiment of scorn and frustration. It was already three years since they escaped that husk of a world through the skin of their teeth, and now the captain had another menace to the Great American Experiment right in front of them. “How were you able to intercept this?”
“ECHELON was able to intercept the radio transmissions, sir.” The officer explained. “Not to mention that the birds haven’t exactly caught up in encryption.”
“I see…” The captain said as he put his fingers on his chin, deep in reflection.
“So it’s true then... The birds are going after New Mareland.” The Colonel said to the Captain- both alone in the latter's office. The office was in a state of mess, with neatness not being of importance as of the moment. The same thing was true of the New United States itself. The New Deal by temporary military governor Meyer and sent into overdrive by the newly elected President Carter had made the United States into a state of boundless construction and rebuilding in cities like New New York City, New Washington, Nova Columbus, New Boston, New Baltimore to name a few. These cities especially have seen a dramatic rise as Humans settled into their new houses and apartments as life was steadily returning to relative normalcy. Until now, it would seem.
“It was only going to be a matter of time anyway.” The captain said with a sigh “You heard that speech by Beakolini, about liberating the oppressed Griffons from the hooves of the ponies.” He said as he grabbed the handle for his desk phone. “We gotta speak with the Director, hell, even the president.” He said as he punched the buttons on his phone.
“About that, Captain Woods…” The officer said as he pointed to the newspaper that was on his desk. On the front page of The New New York Times, with bold lettering stating President Carter will meet with European Chancellor Khol to strengthen the New United Nations.
Woods took the newspaper, holding it by its side as he read it. After a few moments of uncertainty, Woods placed the newspaper down before he began to punch numbers into the phone.
“Dammit. I’m going to get a hold of Director Turner. By a stroke of luck, they should be briefing the president within the hour.” He said before looking at the young officer. “Resume your duties, and monitor any new developments from Wingbrady.”
The Colonel nodded before exiting from the office of the captain as he began to speak with the receptionist of director wood. “I need to speak with Director Turner ASAP. We have an…”
“...emergency?” President James Earl Carter, Jr, with a tired and shocked face, responded to his aide. “What do you mean?”
The President was sitting on a brown leather chair in the bustling cabin of Air Force One. Unlike his many public appearances, he only wore a white button-down, a black tie, and black slacks, with his black blazer placed on the chair next to him. In truth, he was in a place that no other President had ever been before in his nation’s history, for he was the President of the United States of America, without an America lead.
Not since the presidency of Lincoln where the very idea of the American identity was put so much into chance. Not to mention that the very institution of democracy and limited government was put into jeopardy after the army took control of the government and nearly caused a civil war. Thankfully, since then it’s been smooth sailing domestically. Well, smooth standing from near human extinction and having to handle the entire populations of North and South America.
“Mr. President, it’s with Wingbrady.” Secretary of Defense Brown said to the President, sitting down next to one of the most powerful men in the world. “We just got an emergency transmission from the director of the CIA from New Washington.”
“I’m listening,” Carter said, putting his fist under his chin.
“It doesn’t look good.” Chairmen of the Joint Chief of Staff Meyer Edward added.
“Wingbrady sent a transmission to a far-left extremist group in New Mareland. We were able to intercept it using one of our ECHELON stations. Just as secretary Brown said, it doesn’t look good. They want their help in an upcoming war between them and New Mareland.”
“And… why should we care?” Carter began to question. “This doesn’t have much of a threat to us. This is an Equestrian matter, not an American one.”
Meyer began to explain. “You see, ever since Beakolini took power, his government has been a cluster fuck. Political Factions have been forming and causing trouble, so what he needs right now is a win to boost his odds. Well, New Mareland is his best bet. Their army is mainly volunteer forces, hardly any armored vehicles that can put up enough of a defense. When they fall, and let’s be honest it’ll only be a matter of time, we’re going to potentially have a fascist aggressive state right up on our border. New Mareland must survive if we want to stay in this world peacefully.”
Carter, for lack of a better word, was more or less expecting this. Ever since Beakolini marched on the streets of Karthin, he and his fascist empire were always a thorn in the side of the free and democratic nations- but there wasn’t much he could have done back then. His main priorities were building up the civilian government, rebuilding his country's civilian and economic sectors, and gaining Europe and Russia's goodwill, among the other human nations that survived into this new world. The United States were already in a pact with its old allies of the United Kingdom and Israel, but they needed more support in this world- no matter the cost.
“I see,” Carter spoke to the two men that were sitting at the table.
“How about troop movements? Did our planes pick up anything?” The President asked.
“Positive, sir. We were going to detail this further in your Daily briefing. However, this is a better time than any. An SR-71 took photos of the main port of Talononte showing a large naval force.” He said as he took out a file with black and white photos. “Carriers, Battleships, Cruisers, Destroyers, Submarines- all nine yards.” He said as he began to point out the ships to the president.
“Godalimighy, It's an invasion fleet. And a big one at that.” Carter said as he picked up the photos to look at them more closely. Carter was true to his word; it was a battle fleet full and through. There must be thousands of sailors, not to mention the forces that would present for the landings that would ravage the interior of New Mareland.
“Mareland’s navy isn’t up to par against theirs, so when Wingbardy sail out, there’s not much they’re going to be able to do.” Meyer explained.
“Get Secretary Vance up to speed. Once he knows the full details, I want him to meet with the New Mareland ambassador. We have to get up to speed with them in all cases.”
“Sir, the attack could be imminent-” Meyer said before Carter cut him off.
“And only now I know about this?!” Carter said to Meyer, rising from his seat while he rubbed his hands through his face as he sighed in frustration. It was clear that the Yanks had to do something, but the question was if they even could do something. Everyone knew that the United States wasn’t ready for a war, at least not yet. They were still in transition from getting their military assets from Old Earth into this new world. And yet, It wasn’t proven yet if superior tech could be sufficient against a more significant tactical force. If there were any time when this would be proven or disproven, it would be now.
“What's the status of our fleet?” Carter said, turning back to Meyer.
“We’ve been improving steadily over the past three years. But it’s not good. The bulk of our fleet is under repairs, radiation decontamination, and in the process of being extracted from Earth.” Secretary of Defense Brown responded.
“And what about our army? Is it any better?” The President asked.
“Well, it’d be uncertain if they could help with a Wingbardy incursion into New Mareland, given this point and time. We won’t be at full combat readiness to Pre-War levels for at least a year or two. Factories are working around the clock, Mr President.” Meyer responded before noticing the disheartened President’s face. At that moment, the General had an idea. A dangerous one, but at this point that's what they needed.
“Sir, I have an idea if diplomatic means are not possible,” Meyer said to the President. “It involves the…”
USS ENTERPRISE (CVN-65)
FREESIDE GULF
20 Miles off the coast of Talononte.
TEN DAYS AFTER THE BEAKOLINI TELEGRAM WAS INTERCEPTED BY THE UNITED STATES.
Antonio Horbaczewski felt the cold breeze on his face of the Freeside Gulf as he strapped himself into his F-14/D Tomcat- even with his thick flight suit. At times like this, he would look down the horizon of the Freeside Gulf. However, the pitch black of the evening made things slightly tricky. He had to admit himself; this mission was strange in a sense. They were first sent out to the Freeside Gulf on the orders of Patrolling for any hostile vessels. Now, they were being told to scramble, and they were going to be briefed in the air. Something definitely wasn’t adding up.
As he closed the canopy of the plane, he felt a sense of familiarity that one would get in being in a home. And for lack of a better word, this plane was, in a sense, his home for the past four years- along with his Radar Intercept Officer. Speaking of which, Ruby “Tots” Kilmartin began to speak up from behind him in the back seat.
“Radar’s up. How’re things looking up from there, Apache?” She said in a peppy Irish accent.
“Electronic Systems are good. Weapon systems are up and running. Everything else seems to be good. Check-in with Cheyenne.” Antonio “Apache” Horbaczewski responded to his Wingman’s question.
Following her wingman’s request, she got into radio contact with the latter of the Gaol Team- the F/A-18/A Hornet piloted by none other than Markus “Cheyenne” Valentine.
“This is Cheyenne; systems are looking good. We’re clear in the hood; think they’re going to let us loose now?”
“Only thing I can think of is what they’re letting us lose on. They practically have every plane here on alert like we’re going back at it against the Ruskies!” Tots responded to the F-18 pilot.
“I think it’s Wingbardy.” Apache said, readying his helmet. “The whole speech about trying to reclaim and liberate Griffion of New Mareland? Not to mention their mobilization on the border. Whatever we’re doing- it’s something to do with that.” He speculated as Tots got a message from the ATC of the Enterprise.
“Alright, Apache, we're clear for takeoff. The same goes for you, Cheyenne.”
“Got it, Tots,” Apache responded while the engines of the Tomcat bellowed to life as the pilot pushed the throttle slightly forward. The engines of the Tomcat roared with a ferocity equal to that of a mountain Tomcat. This allowed the variable-winged behemoth of a plane to move across the blackened flight deck, with the Hornet following behind it.
The aircraft stopped in the front catapults, with the crew attaching the front wheel to the catapult itself.
“This is the Enterprise ATC. Gaol Team, you’re cleared for scrambled takeoff.” They said as the Jet blast deflector behind both aircraft lifted behind them. “Go now. AWACS will brief you in the air!”
Bright orange afterburners erupted from the engines of the aircraft as the bright firestorm illuminated the area around them, bringing light to the flight deck like a beacon. With the newfound light source, the patterns on both aircraft could now be seen much more clearly. Both aircraft had a jet black paint job- making them blend in with the night. They also had the blue and red USAF roundel on their front nose side, just below their cockpits. On the vertical tail of Apache’s F-14 was the symbol of a white horse- specifically, a Mustang. On the vertical tail of Cheyenne’s plane was a white Omega symbol emblazoned with a small logo of humanity’s home world in the back.
Apache could feel himself being shoved into the back of his seat as the Tomcat ripped through the flight deck at astonishing speeds before feeling the catapult detach from the Tomcat, freeing it from the carrier and into the darkness of the night. The Hornet followed not so far behind, with the flight team racing off into the obsidian night.
The Tomcat was always a favorite among the naval aviators of the United States- even as the navy evacuated to this new “cartoonish” world. They were large and imposing but also sleek and reliable through new improvements. And since the evacuation- the Tomcat and the Hornet have been the workhorses of the USN, working overtime in order to keep up with the threats of flying Ponies, Griffons, and early jet fighters that have been popping up.
This was evident to the flight team- a Tomcat and an Hornet taking off into the night loaded with Air to Air and Air to Ship missiles. It wasn’t only a military team- but it was a statement. The statement of technology and science besting anything magic could throw at it.
Once in the air, the WSO officer of the Tomcat got to work- tuning the radio in order to listen for the in-air briefing. “Okay, tuning in!” Tots said, modulating the radio’s wavelength to get into communication with the AWACS they have been assigned, up in a Northrop Grumman E-2 Hawkeye.
“This is AWACS Razor of the United States Navy- Gaol Team, Listen up!” The AWACS said.
“You’re the first set of aviators who will be a part of Operation Free Bird. I’m sure you all know about the situation with Wingbrady and New Mareland. Therefore, We have been given authority by the President to conduct a Coup de main attack against the naval forces of the Kingdom of Wingrady in Talononte in order to prevent a sea invasion of New Mareland.” The AWACS said.
“It’s a large force. One carrier, four destroyers, a battleship, three cruisers, three frigates, and two submarines. Luckily for us, we have something the birds don’t have. Our tech.”
The AWACS began to look through his notes; planned extensively for this exact situation. “Gaol Team, You’ll be tasked with Air Superiority with complimentary support from Starburst Squadron from Enterprise and Knockback Squadron from Andrews AFB.” He explained. “That’s why we’re already in the air, to dispatch any patrols and hit any plane that's on the ground.”
“The birds seem to have in possession early jet fighters. Italian Designs, weirdly enough. Several Societá Aerea Talusiana Sagittario 1s and 2s, Columbroni G.80s, Pigeonio Arietes, Accipitri Pe.2008s, and Accipitri Re.2007s. However, we’ve also been getting images of Fiat G.91s- fighters from the UEN. We’re investigating how they got there, but for now, expect them Reports from our friends in New Mareland have shown they have Air to Air Missiles as supplements.”
“The main crux of this operation is the bombers,” the AWACS stated. “We’ll have Blue Squadron, equipped with experimental F-117s, carry the mission. They’re loaded with advanced JDAM bombs to take down the ships. The Nighthawks won't show up on their radars, but make sure they keep their distance from enemy aircraft.” He shuffled through notes, double checking the battle plan.
“If they take out our bombers, the operation will be FUBAR.” He said grimly in his voice. “So it’s your priority to establish air superiority and take down any planes.”
“We’re also providing suppression of enemy air defenses operations to take down their SAM sites. Utah Squadron has been tasked to lead that effort - they'll be clearing a path through hostile airspace. Take advantage of the window they provide! F-111 Aardvarks have already taken off from New New York to jam radar and communications,” he further said.
“I’ll be providing real-time reconnaissance and identification of ally/enemy support from my AWACS aircraft," he said. "Proceed to the port and determine if there are any enemy aerial patrols operating. If positively identified, you are fully authorized by direct orders from the President of the United States of the Americas to engage in defensive counterair operations.” He finally ended, with his voice cutting out.
“Huh, No pressure, right?” Cheyenne said, forming up on the right-hand side of the F-14D.
“Wcale, Cheyenne.” Apache chuckled in his father’s native language. “Let’s not keep them waiting, increasing speed to Mach 1.3.” He said as he placed his glove onto the throttle. “Hold on, Tots,” He said as he pushed the throttle forward, making the engines roar in the back as forces pushed both pilots and co-pilot into their olive green seats.
“You better not drag your ass back there, Cheyenne!” Apache exclaimed on the radio as the Tomcat started disappearing into the night.
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” His wingman said as orange thrust trailed behind the Hornet.
The port of Talononte was unusually quiet- even as the blackness of night overcast on it. The Wingbradian ships laid dormant in its harbor, creaking ever so slightly as the waves made marginally rocked them.
It was a very different story in the sky.
Gaol Team was now not alone anymore as they raced across the skies, joined by other American flights. They were currently flying side by side in the night- joined by the pack of fighters, attack aircraft, and interceptors to form the first wave.
At the spearhead of the attack formation flew Gaol Team in their battle-tested F-14D Tomcat and an F/A -18 Super Hornet, proven able veterans from decisive air campaigns over Germany and more recently in air operations in the Aquileian Revolution. Their role again today was to serve as the "kick in the door" force - clearing out any Wingbardian patrols that stood in the strike package's way. Gaol One carried the distinction of designation authority, directing the opening shots of the mission per doctrinal norms.
Flanking their flight path on both sides were the fighter squadrons tasked with controlling the skies for the operation. To their left flew Starburst Squadron - Six FA-18A Hornets hailing from the mighty USS Enterprise. On the right, Knockback Squadron's eight F-4E Phantoms maintained a tight formation, their older airframes still plenty lethal. Just behind raced Countdown Squadron, twelve sleek F-14D Tomcats ready to enter the merge. And leading the combined air wing were the eight pilots of Eagle Squadron in their F-15C Eagles - the tip of the spear for the mission, on loan from New Andrews Air Force Base.
And these didn’t include the other planes of the first wave. Interceptors were tasked with intercepting and destroying reinforcements loaded with long-range missiles. The Tomcats and Phantoms of AFB Norfolk would take up this task. Furthermore, the Wild Weasels- F-4Js were also loaded with anti-radiation missiles that would be tasked with taking out any SAM Sites.
All of these planes would compose the first wave of the attack. The second attack would be the bombers that would be tasked with destroying the ships in the harbor using their precision-guided bombs and missiles to take out the Winbardian ships.
This was the picturesque image of recent American superiority when it came to the air in this strange new world. Each one of these planes was simply alien to the inhabitants of this new world (and when it came to the F-117 Nighthawk, people did take it for being alien.) They were faster, more agile, and packed more firepower than ever thought possible. The planes truly were the products of a race that nearly destroyed themselves in the cataclysm of a nuclear hellfire.
And in one of these unprecedented inventions- Apache sat in the pilot's seat, piloting his Tomcat on cruising with its wings swept out. They weren’t that high up in the sky, only a few thousand feet up in the sky- so that the missiles could get nice and close.
The city down below them looked so peaceful and quiet from this high up, like it itself was sleeping.
And he guessed that it was their job to wake it up.
"Attention all flight leaders, this is AWACS Razor actual - authorization to initiate Operation Free Bird has been issued directly from command authority of the President and Joint Congressional leadership, effective immediately. You have weapons free and clearance to enter Wingbardy airspace and prosecute designated target sets. We’re all counting on you.”
As if on cue, multiple converging contacts suddenly appeared on Tots' rearward-facing radar display. "Bogies, bullseye one-nine-zero for ten, high-speed, inbounds from the deck! Looks like a squadron!” she reported. It appeared their rapid strike against Wingbardy air defenses had attracted reinforcements to the party at the port complex. Tots' screen lit up with four additional fast movers, likely fighter aircraft already airborne on combat air patrol to protect the strategic port area.
That was all Apache needed to hear as he gripped on his joystick. “Gaol One engaging! Alright Tots, Cheyenne, turn and burn!” He yelled out to his team.
“That’s all I need to hear Apache, Gaol Two Engaging!” The FA-18 pilot rammed his throttles forward, feeling the immense push of the engines strain against their mounts as the aircraft became buoyant with raw power. Cheyenne yanked back and pitched to the right, trading airspeed to rapidly match headings. Craning his neck, he glimpsed the Tomcat mimicking his near vertical climb alongside.
The Tomcat pilot was in a similar position as the two planes were in tight formation with their missiles packed into them. They were just thankful for the recent fuel and electrical innovations in crystals, which gave them the blessing of being able to carry more missiles than ever before in a plane.
Speaking of missiles, they were going to need it soon.
"Apache, tally bandit - eleven high, crossing left to right! We’re really doing this!" Tots called out tersely from the Tomcat's radar officer seat as she slewed her digital scan zone onto the bogey as the Tomcat and its Hornet partner leveled out as it matched its heading. The jet was still over five miles out and cruising above them oblivious to the looming threat. For now.
Apache gently banked the F-14 right while activating the radar, mechanical dish sweeping to illuminate the target area. Although the darkness of the sky blacked out any sight, it didn’t mean much to the radar of the F-14.
"Fangs out," Apache’s WSO confirmed. The AWG-9 radar panel showed a solid lock on the bogey even out at this range. Likely a probably one of those older planes Razor had briefed them about judging by large signature return...though old, they were still more than capable planes. Apache mentally filed that info as he prepared to reel his prey in.
"Got ‘em....Fox Three, Fox three!" Apache intoned. At those words a specialized AIM-54 air-to-air missile dropped from the Tomcat's chin station, sparked alive by the magical enhancement, and ignited off the rail with a shrieking smoke trail towards the Wingbardian jet still ignorant of its own demise hurtling rapidly closer through the clear skies.
It was much similar to Cheyenne’s side of things also.
Cheyenne finished his clearing turn and rolled out wings level, scanning for targets in his assigned sector. The Hornet's radar gave him situational awareness on the Tomcat's long range Phoenix launch at the unfortunate bogey to the north.
"Gaol Two , tally Fiat, bullseye one-eight-five, five miles closing, Right behind you guys!" Cheyenne relayed tersely
Cheyenne slewed the laser designation pod slung under his Hornet’s intake toward the adversary plane and squeezed the trigger. "Fox Three!" he shouted triumphantly as an AIM-120 missile dropped off the rail and immediately arched upward, finding the hapless jet in its infrared seeker.
Now two high powered missiles were flying widely in the air, speeding towards it’s destinations. Tots tracked the contrails on her display as the AIM-54 Phoenix and AIM-120 AMRAAM covered the intervening distance in barely twenty seconds thanks to their head start and speed gifted by Equestrian energy crystals.
The Amraam was first to connect, slamming directly into the upper left side of the distant Wingbrady plane’s fuselage - rupturing the fuel tank in a spectacular gout of flame. A heartbeat later the massive Phoenix impacted just below the stricken fighter's cockpit. The twin hammer blows instantly shattered the fragile airframe, obliterating the antique jet before debris had even begun falling earthward.
"Splash two on Fiats! We’re really going at ‘em!" Apache confirmed with satisfaction. But there was no time for self-congratulation - the remaining adversaries had witnessed the demise of their two comrades and broken formation, let loose to aggressively pursue Gaol Flight now revealed. They didn’t need to call anyone else, they would be enough for them. And thanks to the jamming of the aardvarks, it wasn’t like they weren’t going to get reinforcements.
"Gaol One engaging, come on Cheyenne, let’s show ‘em what we got!" Apache calmly commanded. In one smooth motion he firewalled the Tomcat's throttles while banking hard left, maneuvering to cut off and surprise the leader of the pair of G.91s who had slashed high right to build separation.
Apache shoved the F-14's stick hard right while firewalling the throttles, slewing the nimble jet violently across the sky to line up a clear shot on the fleeing G.91. The sudden maneuver yanked Tots forward against her restraints with crushing g-forces. Groaning from the excessive pull, the Tomcat's heavy twin tails lagged for an instant before catching up with the maneuver as it heeled over into a spiraling pursuit curve.
Now the Wingbardy fighter snapped into focus in Apache's gun sight, just for a brief moment as the Fiat frantically jinxed. But the fractional targeting lock was all the seasoned pilot needed. "Guns, Guns, Guns!" Apache barked. On the signal Tots activated Apache's 20mm rotary cannon. The M-61 Vulcan beneath the F-14's nose spun up, spraying a dense hailstorm of high-explosive incendiary shells traced by glinting golden casings arcing off behind them in the Tomcat's wake.
The rounds from the air-to-air gun found their mark immediately despite the extreme deflection shot. Explosions stitched across the G.91's fuselage and into the main fuel tank as Apache continued depressing the trigger. With its cockpit shattered and the aircraft spewing flames, the Fiat peeled violently down to the sea.
“Haha, yes! Apache One, splash one-!” Tots joyfully exclaimed, before gunfire erupted around the cockpit. The Tomcat would swerve violently to the right into an evasive roll, making both Apache and Tots slam against the cockpit. The Weapons Systems Officer would look behind them to see what caused the gunfire. Sure enough, it was a Wingbardy fighter jet. It must’ve swung in from high and taken advantage of the other fighter’s distraction.
"Dammit, Bandit on our six closing fast!" Apache snapped, before a shrill missile lock alarm blared through the cockpit. He banked hard right while triggering chaff and flares - just barely defeating the heatseeker launched in a desperation shot from the Wingbardy jet. He had a sigh of relief as he saw the missile streak by his plane, with the smoke slowly disappearing in the darkness of the night.
"Cheyenne, could use some help here!" Tots called out over comms through gritted teeth as she was slammed hard left into her restraint straps by another violent evasive jerk of the stick from Apache.
To their relief Cheyenne's voice crackled back over the radio, still sounding calm despite the altitude wrestling match he was engaged in. "Hold on Apache, keep it where I want them..."
Apache resumed his breakneck maneuvering, determined to give the tenacious Fiat leader little time to line up firing solutions while making another missile lock difficult. If Cheyenne couldn't find a window soon though,it would only be a matter of time before the Wingbardy would get a lucky shot in. "Anytime now buddy..." he muttered, even under the G-Forces that were pushing him against his seat.
As if hearing the plea, Cheyenne came screeching down from above the swirling fight, unloading a full burst from his Hornet's gun. 20mm shells ripped through the back quadrant of the Fiat before it could react. The aircraft buckled violently, spilling flames and began spiraling towards the deck.
"Hell yeah, nice kill!" Tots congratulated their wingman over comms before finally taking a breath and assessing the surrounding skies, now cleared. Seeing this, she would get onto the intercoms.
“This is Gaol Flight - enemy patrol squadron eliminated. That should give us a window. Request priority targeting instructions for commencement of attack phase on port facilities."
A burst of static followed by the AWACS commander's voice responded after a few seconds, audible satisfaction at the news contained in his tone even over the radio.
"Outstanding work Gaol. You are cleared to proceed immediately with strikes on these coordinates-" he listed off a sequence of map grid references around the sprawling port complex. "Primary targets are the fuel storage depots and dry dock cr-” The AWCAS said, before he abruptly stopped. “Wait, What the hell?!”
“What is Razor?” Cheyenne asked, forming the right hand side of the Tomcat.
“We’re getting radar signatures of Mirage III above the main fleet area. How the hell did they get those?!” He said with a groan. “The bird bastards must’ve hid them from us!” He noted to himself before turning his attention.
“Gaol Team, Starburst Squadron, listen up! We’ve got radar signatures of approximately Ten Wingbardy Mirages over the fleet area and the main intersection for our bombers. Your task is to neutralize and destroy them before they intercept our Bombers our else this entire mission is fucked!”
“Ten Mirages?!” Apache said with surprise. “How the hell did that slip by?”
“All I know is that the European Ambassador is going to catch hell for this! Let’s get them, Apache!” Cheyenne growled, before his Hornet turned to the side and turned hard to the designated coordinates.
Apache would follow that up by following the Hornet, with the airframe buckling under the Gs it was being put under as its engine roared like a lion.
Cheyenne's Hornet formed up on Apache's wing as Gaol Flight leveled out, altering course to rush towards the defense fleet's coordinates. Without warning, the entire port suddenly erupted in a crown of light and smoke. Wingbardy anti-aircraft batteries and surface-to-air missile sites that had previously maintained emission control were now active, spewing tracers and contrails in all directions to meet the detected threat.
That would be a threat probably, save for the fact that the Americans were expecting this.
"Check left, two o'clock - our guys are right on time," Tots noted laconically as flashes of light brilliantly flared across the sky from multiple horizon points. The SEAD flights from Utah Squadron had arrived - from their standoff positions beyond detection range, SPICE glide bombs rained down atop exposed AAA and SAM vehicles while cluster munitions smothered thinly protected missile batteries. Explosions would rock the port city to life as orange flame erupted in the city.
Now, the only thing between the Air Force and the ships that were going to massing to threaten Equestrian shores were that damned squadron.
"Tally on bogeys, bearing one-six-five for twenty miles," Apache marked the coordinates as Gaol Flight pushed their throttles forward, engines snarling towards the danger zone. They were getting vectors from AWACS, but would need to close rapidly for missile envelope acquisition on the Mirages now circling menacingly around the anchorage like sharks awaiting bloody spoils.
"I make a dozen aircraft still operational," Tots noted from the rear cockpit, consulting her display. "Recent variants...look like they're equipped for intercept and anti-shipping strike roles based on the modular loadouts the sensors are seeing."
"Still won't be enough to stop us..." Cheyenne muttered over comms, but without any mocking in his tone. The capabilities gap between human and Wingbardy air power remained immense, yet a fight was anything but guaranteed, and just one mistake could cost American and Mareland lives. As if sensing the thoughts, Apache clicked his mic.
"Hey stay sharp anyone, we don’t know much about these-" Apache chimed in, trying to ease his flight before the unexpected happened.
“Damned American dogs!” Gaol’s radios called out, revealing a thick, seemingly older dItalian accent. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing!?” The older pilot yelled out on the radio. “We’re not even at war with you!”
“What?!” Tots exclaimed, looking down towards the radio, “Who is this?! How the hell did you get our radio frequencies?”
“That is Captain Gaetano Garibaldi of Regia Aeronautica of the Kingdom of Wingbardy to you, you damned American bastards! You’re in direct violation of every international law by invading sovereign territory and destroying our assets unprovoked! Turn back now or else we’ll make sure that none of you will ever return!”
The accented voice continued ranting as Gaol Flight and Starburst Squadron streaked towards his Mirage patrols. "You Americans are reckless cowboys looking to shoot wherever you wish! But we sons of Wingbardy know how to handle your frontier outlaw kind..."
The taunts pushed Apache to the breaking point. "Na litość boską, enough already! Vector your aircraft outside of the combat airspace or else we will have to take action!”
"Oh the mission will be over quickly for you, arrogante aviatore!" Garibaldi spat back. "My squadron will make short work of you Yankee bastards!"
A sharp cry from the head of Starburst confirmed the verbal feint. "This is Starburst squadron, shit, Tally four Mirages low fast moving to envelop us from eight o’clock!" It was clear that the Wingbardian pilots were clearly trained well, looking to split their focus into a pincer movement formation.
"Starburst Lead, break right and climb while you engage them, I'll push to the rest of the Mirages so that they won’t get any help, and change radio frequencies for god's sake." Apache directed calmly over comms, he said as he pushed the throttle of his F-14. “You’re with me Cheyenne, let’s turn and burn!”
The Starburst leader would reply in confirmation as his Hornets peeled hard right into the Mirage formation, missiles flaming away.
"Right behind you, Apache, lights on!" Cheyenne confirmed, tucking his Hornet tightly against Apache's wing as the Tomcat plunged towards the melee below.
“Give me a headcount Tots, how many are we up against now?” Apache replied, as the flight team would race across the sky.
“Tally… four bandits, two are breaking off to join the diversion. Looks like the flight lead is staying behind though. Seems he wants to face us personally.”
“Two against four?” Cheyenne questioned. “I don’t like those odds.”
“Nothing we haven’t trained for. Besides, it’s quality over quantity!” Apache retorted, the hints of a wry grin detectable under his oxygen mask.
“Besides, we can even the playing field. Ready the missiles Tots.”
"Copy that - AMRAAMs, Phoenixes, prepped and standing by!" Tots quickly rearranged the weapon select options, warheads armed and launch channels now hot. “What are you thinking Apache?”
"Let's not give them time to react..." Apache remarked. "Target the flight lead and his wingman. Ripple a Phoenix on my mark, Cheyenne you fire two AIM, we’ll take the rest of them high and low with guns to save ammo for any others.”
The deadly long range air-to-air missiles would cover the remaining distance in just a few seconds, from there it would be easy picking from his best guess. Now they just had to take it.
"Magnum!" Apache called, as Tots and Cheyenne keyed launch sequence. Four missiles would launch from their respective planes as they streaked across the sky towards their targets. In just a few seconds, the missiles would hit their mark, causing the Mirages to violently explode despite it trying to evade and dumping countermeasures.
However, against all odds, the Mirage flight leader seemingly did the impossible - expertly maneuvering his jet vertical then jinking left at the last instant. The Phoenix missile harmlessly overshot just past his canopy before self-detonating, unable to reorient in time onto the wildly gyrating target.
This would leave the flight lead and his wingman in the fight, evening the odds.
“What the hell-?!” Apache exclaimed as the Mirage flight lead swiftly leveled off directly in their path, already firing his dual 30mm DEFA cannons in a defiant barrage at the streaking Tomcat.
Apache violently yanked his control stick hard right, immediately rolling his jet into an evasive spiral. Sparks erupted from the F-14's left stabilizer as a solitary armor piercing slug tore through the wing instead of the cockpit by the narrowest of margins thanks to his brute reaction force.
“Not so invincible eh Yankee?! You will pay for daring to fire upon our homeland and striking my comrades!” A familiar shout through the radio reminded Gaol Team that no fight was handed to them as the Mirage crossed passes with them, shaking the cockpits of the flight team.
“Oh my god, do you ever shut up?!” Tots groaned through the G-Forces exerted on her body. “Come on Apache, do some of that pilot shit!”
Apache didn’t have to respond. Instantly the Tomcat’s wings swept full extension as the aircraft pitched into a severe turn to the right, twin tails slewing violently to try matching the extreme angle of attack, with the Hornet following close behind.
“It’s two on two now!” Cheyenne called out, his Hornet buckling under the immense pressure. “I can get the other guy, you get the old fart!” He said as he broke off from the Tomcat to follow the Ace’s wingman.
As if he was sensing this, Garibaldi would have his Mirage pitch upwards, with orange thrust exiting from the afterburners in order to try to gain the coveted high ground.
“Too close for missiles, switch to guns!” Apache commanded Tots, who did with due diligence, smoothly transitioning weapon selectors. Pressing the trigger, the Vulcan machine would make a horrifying rattling sound, spraying the night sky with orange rounds, trying his best to shoot down the Wingbardy ace.
The Mirage would pitch and turn through the rounds, being able to weave through the, “Do you have any idea on what you’re doing?! We didn’t attack you!” Garibaldi yelled over the radio through each bone-jarring maneuver. "Now all of Wingbardy will rally to crush such unprovoked aggression, make no mistake!"
“And let you guys invade New Mareland?” Tots responded, with Apache focused on the guns.
Tracer fire swirled all around his fuselage, etching closer across the Mirage's wings and canopy despite the pilot's desperate rolls to escape. Then multiple loud thuds echoed through the airframe - 20mm slugs finding their mark even through frantic maneuvers.
“Dammit, Lucky shot.” Garibaldi commented, regaining the control of his plane as he pushed the throttle all the way down. Being frustrated, the griffon began to lash out and his cockpit began to show more and more warnings.
“What do you even hope to achieve?!” He yelled through his radio. “Once reinforcements arrive, you're all as good as dead! All of you dogs are only delaying the inevitable!”
Apache could only chuckle as he looked at the time. “Sure, but we did get you distracted long enough!”
“Wait…” The Griffion said, confused out of his mind. “What in the God’s names are you-?!” He yelled out, before he saw a blinding flash from his cockpit.
Rapid successions of explosions with massive concussive force erupted across his faceplate as JDAM bombs released by the bombers directly over pinpointed targets crashed through thin upper deck plating to detonate devastating blasts deep within magazine spaces. The vessels practically lifted fully clear of water amidst towering mushroom clouds fueled by volatile Aviation gas stores igniting, no crew able to survive such instantaneous obliteration. The oil stations also exploded in a cascade of orange and black fire, spreading fire to military installations around it.
Where sleek frigates and proud warships had fearsomely awaited invasion fleet loading mere minutes prior, now only raging debris fields remained scattered across the misted waters turned blood red in evening light. Wingbardy's invasion fleet ceased to exist in half a heartbeat, as it was always planned to be.
“No…” Garibaldi quietly said, looking at the destroyed remains of the once proud fleet. That quietness turned into well… you’ll see it for yourself.
“YOU TWO LEGGED FUCKERS!!!” He screeched out, pitching his Mirage in any way he could get a clear view of the Tomcat. So violently was the turn he nearly passed out in his seat, saving only due to his rage. “YOU GODDAMN IDIOTS, YOU RUINED IT! YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING!” He yelled, trying his best to shoot down the Tomcat. But as much as he tried, the Tomcat whisked past its rounds, with the rounds disappearing into the burning harbor below.
To add insult, the American ace took to lofting in taunting barrel rolls and lifts - making use of elevation and air braking skill Garibaldi lacked to maintain dominant positioning above his disadvantaged foe. Missiles and shells kept spearing earthward, splashing fruitlessly into the harbor's flaming wreckage. This dogfight had reached its bitter end phase.
About to order Tots to rearm another AIM-9 to put this wild animal down for good, Apache suddenly heard Razor AWACS break in over comms. "All flights, this is command - disengage and rally at designated Bingo coordinates. Strike and Eggress packages confirm target objective achieved, I say again - disengage and withdraw with caution. All units, RTB."
“Roger dodger AWACS, returning to Enterprise.” Apache said, breaking off from the mad ace.
“What are you doing?!” The ace yelled out on open comms. “Fight me, you cowards!”
“Don’t think you’d want to fight when your engines are busted.” Cheyenne remarked, as he leveled out on the side with the Tomcat.
“What are you talking-?!” The Ace babbled, before a dull heavy knocking suddenly came from his rear engines. The once-proud engines, which moments ago roared with power and defiance, now betrayed their master, sputtering and groaning in protest.
Garibaldi could scarcely believe it as warning lights flashed wildly across his instrument panel. The Mirage's twin Atar jet engines were failing fast, damaged by hits from the American ace. Thick black smoke trailed behind him now, the battered aircraft lurching drunkenly.
“You should go home now.” Apache said through the open radio, smirking underneath his helmet.
"You may have wounded this bird today, Yankee!" Garibaldi spat over the radio. "But we sons of Wingbardy have long memories and sharp talons. Pray we do not meet again!"
Banking away from the Americans now peeling lazily back towards their carrier, Garibaldi grimaced against the warnings blaring through his oxygen mask. The Mirage shivered violently, struggling to maintain any altitude. Turning towards distant land, the ace silently cursed the enemies who had laid his fleet low and now robbed him of revenge.
“Jesus…” Cheyenne remarked as the Mirage disappeared from view. “What a fuckin’ nut…”
Tots chimed in soon after. “Isn’t that the truth? All I’m saying is we didn't fight anyone with that much of a loudmouth back on Earth.” She reflected, as the Flight Team joined up with Starburst Squadron in formation.
Suddenly, a chime came in from the AWACS, only for the illustrious flight team though. “One more thing Gaol Team, you’re due with the Lieutenant commander for a one on one meeting once you RTB.”
“In order to compliment our wondrous performance?” Cheyenne added in, his more relaxed side coming in.
“Yeah sure,” Razor said sarcastically over the radio. “Just give me a minute to pull the frickin’ red carpet out on the flight deck for you guys...”
“Don’t keep it waiting,” Apache joked. “Tell Commander Kono that we’ll see her as soon as we RTB. Gaol Team out.” He cut out on the radio.
Tots leaned back as far as the cramped space allowed, stretching out her tense shoulders. "But seriously, any idea why the LC wants to meet with us?"
Apache kept his gaze fixed outside the bubble canopy at distant fleet lights, shrugging in his harness. "Beats me, but it's anything but congratulating us..."
USS ENTERPRISE
Lieutenant Commander Kono’s Cabin.
Much like every other room on the Enterprise, the cabin of the LC was cramped, confined, and as much space as an apartment in Sunset. Lieutenant Kono experienced that first hand as a part of the Military Attache mission, before she was transferred to the flagship of the United States Navy. Not a bad promotion if she was telling the truth. But anything beats having to suckle in radiation from an extraction vessel in god knows where back home.
"I have to say, Gaol, I'm impressed. Habitually insubordinate mavericks or not, you three flew an exemplary mission tonight. The brass back home will be damn grateful at minimum for us buying Mareland more prep time against invasion." She said, looking through the files of the reports that she was given.
The three members of Gaol Squadron stood tall as the LC spoke to them. Apache, callsign for the squadron leader, had a towering yet lean frame with stark blue eyes and close-cropped blonde hair, along with a well trimmed beard. His radar intercept officer and weapons systems deputy Tots was a curvaceous redhead with a smattering of freckles across her fair skin. With fiery locks pulled back in a bun and an aloof reserved gaze belying her rowdy callsign, Tots rounded out the crew. Finally there was Cheyenne, Apache's loyal wingman. True to his callsign evoking western grit, Cheyenne had rugged scruffy features and an intense thousand-yard stare.
“But as much as you would like to here to praise you all, this isn’t what this meeting is for.” Kono said, putting away the folder, with their faces changing into one of confusion.
“Then…” Cheyenne began to speak. “Why did you call us in here?”
“You’re getting a new squadron member. Or well, members.” She revealed, shocking the members. “They couldn’t join you guys during this mission because of how impromptu it was, but they landed a few hours ago.”
Surprise widened the pilots’ eyes. Replacements or reassignments were common enough, but fresh pilots to complement their ace flight? Gaol Team traded glances, even more intrigued.
“You’ve been getting attention from the higher ups due to your multirole missions and your success in said missions. They’ve decided to round you out with another member so you can do a more variety of missions.” She explained.
“Well, Our new squadron is shorthanded enough as it is, who’s to say we can’t have any fresh new faces?” Apache remarked, cautiously optimistic about reinforcements to cover more sorties.
“Well, that’s the thing.” Kono started to explain, before pressing a red button on her desk. “Operation Free Bird was more just as much an operation to stop a sea invasion of New Mareland. It was… how can I say this? To show we can work with them, the Ponies you mean.”
“And what does that supposed to mean for us?” Tots asked, her peppy Irish accent coming through.
“You're about to find out,” the commander replied. Before any could inquire further, Kono bellowed “Come in!” at a volume nearly causing the pilots to crap their pants.
The door handle jiggled and slowly creaked open. Gaol Team watched, poised for anything that could explain such theatrics...anything except what trotted through.
A small equine figure made their way into the cramped space, accompanied by a much larger human. The equine was adorned in a customized flight suit, their helmet tucked neatly under forelegs rather than arms. Its coat was a Lapis blue, mixed with a racing yellow to accompany it. The man also wore a flight suit, a much more traditional one to be exact, carrying his helmet by his side. He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark, short hair and prominent features.
“Gaol Team… meet Lapis Punch and Dan Newton. Callsigns Navajo and Omaha.”
“Welcome to Gaol Squadron, Gaol Three.”
