Ark of the Lost Angels

American F-1 5E Strike Eagles over Prikkala Air Base, Finland, June 2023. _{(Credit: Wikimedia Commons)}

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Going supersonic is a feeling beyond compare. It’s a testament to humanity’s strengths and abilities that forty five years after the Wright Brothers first flew, we built a plane that broke the sound barrier. For the first time, we raced one of the fundamental facets of life on our little planet and we won.

We’ve been doing it ever since.

But miracles don’t matter when they’re in service of horrors from hell. The world below would look so tiny at this altitude if there was anything to look at but sea blue. It would be beautiful if only I wasn’t hurtling towards a massive dogfight between enemy and allied aircraft which broke out when a supply convoy safe was found. It would be an experience I would tell my children about with wonder and amazement gushing from my voice, if only my reason for flying over this parcel of the planet wasn’t so viciously stained in blood.

Eight months ago, the tinderbox which had been laid across the continent for decades was set alight. Our country’s neighbor had, after months of inflamed rhetoric, seen a military incident on its eastmost island. A small skirmish was fought between the naval and land forces of both nations. Opinions were quickly divided. Many within the nation decried this as a betrayal of a close ally. Military units mutinied and a superpower quickly turned into a powder keg. The popular narrative was that our neighbor had been fired upon by trigger-happy sailors stationed by a lighthouse, which quickly led to this war being dubbed the Lighthouse War.

The nation fractured immediately upon the firing of those first few shells. The Alliance of Free States took up arms against the Federation once the battle lines had been drawn. Arguments arose over the relationship with our neighbor and the course we should take. Arguments became fracture lines, and fracture lines became battle lines. Soon after, everyone else showed up, asking for a piece. Suddenly one of the strongest nations on the planet became the center of hell on earth.

“Javelin, four bandits at bearing 270, headed south-southwest, forty nautical miles from your current position at angels one-eight. Vector to intercept,” Our AWACS, callsign ‘Sauron’ orders. These are the first enemy planes we’ve seen today.

My wingman and I were on our way to join what has become the biggest aerial battle of the entire war. An Alliance supply convoy was detected by long range Federation patrols. Alliance forces called in reinforcements, which were countered by Federation reinforcements. The situation then became a massive dogfight. By the time my element got armed up, we were prepared for a close range fight. This puts us at a disadvantage now. The four planes we’re tracking must have broken away from the furball. We’ll have to catch them before we can kill them.

“Roger Sauron, vectoring to intercept.” The dulcet tones of my wingman, Kayla Crawford chimes back. Callsign, ‘Broadside,’ Crawford would have been a radio DJ or media personality if the cost of college wasn’t so high. Joining the military to serve was a way out of the debt. Becoming a fighter pilot was because she can’t resist a challenge.

Today is going to be challenging.

“Sauron, if you could so kindly pass us the clearance to fire on these guys before they get to the port, it would be most appreciated,” I call in with a mocking politeness while we adjust our heading in a tight turn. The g forces press me into my seat, and I focus on my breathing to keep blood flowing through my body.

“Can you chill? I’m working on it.” Sauron’s in a grumpy mood today.

“Don’t antagonize him. Not today,” Broadside admonishes once our turn has been completed. She’s clearly not in the mood to have much fun either, which is a shame. Usually, she’s the more amusing one of the two of us.

I confirm our heading to ensure we’re pointed in the right direction and perform a full systems check. Navigation, weapons, avionics, radar, warning systems, all read green across the board. My left hand rests itself once more on the throttle, and I take a deep breath. No more time to wax poetic. I look over my right shoulder to confirm Broadside is on my wing.

“Javelin 2-5, full burn,” I announce using the afterburners to catch the enemy aircraft.

“Javelin 3-4, full burn,” Broadside repeats my call.

Truth be told, both of us are eager for action. After weeks of nothing but uneventful combat air patrols and hearing stories of how poorly the war is going on other fronts, we both want something to sink our teeth into. When this war broke out, I don’t think I was nearly this bloodthirsty. If it wasn’t for the constant rotations in the air, the discomfort with that fact would keep me up at night. But war just makes you too exhausted to think.

The water below loses all definitions of form, becoming a flat plane of blue in my eyes. Every pulse of my radar screen continues to show blank. There’s enough fuel for a fight and get us back to land. I only regret that we won’t get to contribute to the massive battle happening to the north, but this is our job right now.

“Javelin, you are cleared to fire on enemy aircraft,” Sauron calls in moments before my radar picks up the enemy aircraft. Fight’s on. “Hostiles are not to get within ten nautical miles of the coast.”

“Master arm on, master arm on,” I announce, echoed by Broadside a moment later. I arm one of my semi-active radar homing missiles. I inform Broadside and Sauron both that I want to close the gap before firing. It’s a 2:1 ratio, and I want us to splash two of them before we get into a dogfight with the other two.

We keep closing the distance on an intercept course, but they remain in formation. They must not know we’re out here yet. Probably a small strike group attempting to launch their attack without getting noticed, and all AWACS in the area are untangling the furball to the north. Good. That gives us one slight advantage.

I light my guy up. He knows we’re here now. The RWR in his cockpit is screaming that someone has a lock on him, alarm tones blaring. My missile needs to get out before he has a chance to react.

“Javelin 2-5, Fox one, Fox one.”

One of the two semi-actives I brought up with me drops away from my aircraft and tears a hole in the sky, followed quickly by one from Broadside’s plane. They disappear almost instantly into the clear deep blue. The missiles themselves travel at almost triple our speed, but it’s still an agonizingly long few moments before we know they hit when two of the four contacts disappear off my radar screen.

“Splash two, Javelin. You are cleared to engage remaining hostiles.” Sauron confirming the kills precedes both enemy contacts left flying rapidly turning direction toward us. “Hostiles merging.”

“Javelin 3-4, Fox one, Fox one,” Broadside calls out as she fires her last beyond-visual-range missile. I follow suit a moment later. Another agonizingly long wait as the radar blips get closer and closer. I calculate the time it would take for the missiles to reach our enemies and give it two seconds either way. Once the whole window has passed, both contacts are still screaming straight at us at supersonic speeds.

“No joy, negative impact. Hostiles are still airborne,” Sauron informs us. Now we have to get in nice and close in order to finish this.

“I’ll take the one on the left, you take the one on the right,” Broadside says. I concur, and we break to intercept our respective targets. I arm my heatseekers and close the distance. He pulls away from the intercept. In our game of chicken, he blinked first. And he’ll pay for that.

Breaking hard right on a high g turn lets me slide in right behind him. Even if my ribs feel like they’re about to crack, I settle myself onto him. My missile’s lock is confirmed with its signature growl. Pulling this trigger has never been so easy. He’s dead to rights.  

“Javelin 2-5, Fox two! Fox two!”

One heatseeker away. Again, another missile tears a hole through the sky between me and my target. He breaks hard right, dropping flares as he does. The missile wavers between the heat signatures, opting for the flares at the last possible moment, and the proximity fuse detonates the middle out of range of the enemy aircraft.

Damn it.

“Sauron, this is Javelin 2-5. Lost sight of hostile.”

“Copy, Javelin 2-5. Hostile is at angels one-five on your seven o’clock, bearing 207.”

He doesn’t get away that easily. I pull back on the throttle and hit my airbrakes to slow myself. Maneuverability will be the key today, not speed. I bring my nose around and my radar reacquires my target.

“Thanks, Sauron. I got him.” I find him again, and the growl of my heatseeker lets me know the target is locked once more. “Javelin 2-5, Fox two.”

He needs to die. But this missile doesn’t do the job. Another successful evasion, this time without the flares. I stay on him, never letting up. My nose keeps crossing him, but he continues swinging just out of my grasp. He will get blown apart once I can put my guns on him. The pull of gravity multiplied forces my breathing into a labored, heavy breath. The outside of my vision has black walls creeping in. Can’t think, must act. Swing back right, try to sight him up. Squeeze off a quick burst. The rotary cannon explodes with the sound of sustained thunder, as if it’s ripping a gash through the sky itself, but the tracers show me all of my rounds went wide.

‘Having trouble keeping up?’ I imagine his voice as being calm and cool with an easy tone that’s disrespectful and belittling. He’s mocking me. I want him dead. I will make him dead.

“Nah, I like the challenge.” I don’t sell it with the labored breathing.

“Say again, Javelin 2-5?” Sauron inquires. I hadn’t realized I was broadcasting.

“Disregard last transmission, Sauron.”

Focus, damnit, focus. On the horizon, the shore comes into view as a tiny line out in the distance. He’s baiting me towards it. Wants me to shoot him down over a populated area. I’m certain we’re within the limits he wasn’t supposed to reach. All that matters now is making sure he doesn’t make it over land.

“How you doing, Fadeout?” Broadside asks.

“Trying to get this guy!”

I crane my neck upwards to spot him coming back around, trying to drop in behind me. I throttle down and hit my breaks. He inverts himself above me, almost as if he’s showing off. I get a good look at his plane for the first time. The leading edge, shape of its wings, every detail is the exact same as mine.

We’re flying the same plane.

Does he have family back home? I wonder if the meal he ate this morning at his airbase was as bland as mine. The inside jokes he has with his squadron. If he was close with the people he was flying with today. The people we killed.

If I do not kill him right now, I do not go home.

He and I think alike, and we both drop, twirling around each other in a dangerous dance, crafting a helix with our contrails as if we were weaving together the very fabric of what it means to be a fighter pilot. Chicken seems to be our favorite game, neither one of us willing to break even as my altimeter rapidly clicks down, and we plunge towards the sea at speeds which would be like hitting a hundred meters of concrete. This twirling display will only lead to the same death as it would on land: shattered and scattered.

I ignore him in favor of strategizing while I plunge down to the ground. My best bet is to wait until the last possible moment and hope I’m faster at reacting than he is. The pressure on my chest when I pull up to level out feels like a truck pushing me against a wall until I level off, skimming the top of the water. My cockpit is repeatedly screaming warnings of “Altitude! Altitude!” in its robotic voice because I’m so low to the ground. I take my hand off the throttle for a split second to silence the alerts. I know how high I am right now.

On my left, my enemy is coming around, not too far above me. My foe holds the same hand of cards as I. Our planes are equivalent in speed, maneuverability, firepower, and energy consumption. The only way I can beat him is to outthink him.

If I close the gap head on, I run the risk of him tearing me to shreds with his guns or blasting me to pieces with missiles before I get the chance to do the same. If I turn tail and run, he’ll be able to catch me. Perhaps I can get my wingman to give me some help.

“Broadside, any chance you can lend an assist?”

“Negative, Fadeout. I’ve got my hands full with my guy.”

I slam my fist against the cockpit in frustration before settling it back onto my throttle. What other tools do I have?

The sun.

If I fly towards the sun, he’ll be blinded, and I’ll get a second to drop away and maneuver around him. I’ll get on his tail, go to guns on him, and waste the bastard. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s all I have. One moment is all I need to reorient myself. The sun is over my left shoulder. I pull back hard on my stick and pitch myself over before rolling back to upright. The force of gravity against my body relaxes itself as I feel the raw acceleration of going full throttle and full afterburner right into our mother star. The mirror atop my cockpit confirms he’s at my six o’clock. It won’t do him good. I roll myself over and pitch down, slowing my speed as I do so. He races right by me, and I pull myself back up to where I was, muscles as tense as they’ve ever been.

Humanity is remarkably stubborn. We fought gravity and won time and again for decades. Until we slipped the grasp of the planet itself to reach the moon which was always so distant in the night sky. And today, I do so again as my airplane lines up my gun on his tail.

The roaring burst of fire catches his wing and kills his maneuverability. He breaks off from his upward trajectory and tries to shake me off, but his plane is struggling to respond. It’s sluggish, uninterested, unable to bend to his wishes. He’s obviously struggling to keep the plane together. He can’t move so he can’t fight. He can only try to run. If he does, he’ll just die tired.

My finger begins to squeeze the trigger as my last heatseeker growls the way a predator does before it pounces and makes a meal out of the poor creature it’s been stalking.

But I can’t do it.

He’s done, combat ineffective, and he probably won’t make it back to friendly lines. I don’t think there’s a need to destroy his airplane. But what if he’s faking? What if the higher ups find out? This is war. He is the enemy. I know what I must do. I don’t seem to have the stomach for it. The most resistance my body has given to anything today is not the forces of gravity in a tight turn, but the willingness to finish squeezing one finger on the trigger.

 “Javelin 2-5, Fox two. Fox two.”

The missile strikes right between his engines. His plane is consumed by a ball of fire. I don’t see an ejection or a chute deploy.

“Javelin 2-5, splash two.” My voice comes across slightly rattled. It’s not the triumphant celebration of someone who is two steps closer to being an ace. It’s not the cold, businesslike reporting of a seasoned professional. It’s not even the relieved exhaustion of someone battling for survival against the forces of nature and man in an intense, brutal showdown for the last several minutes. It’s the fracturing of someone who questions whether they even want to fly again despite dreaming of racing the universe into the deep blue since they were old enough to look up into the sky with wonder.

“Javelin 3-4, splash two,” Broadside calls out as well.

“Nicely done, Javelin. Come on home, they promised they’d leave the lights on for us,” Sauron gets in a bit of a quip at a job well done. Seems less grumpy than earlier.

“Can they pour me a glass of wine and draw a hot bath? I’m going to cramp up something fierce after being in this cockpit all day,” Broadside is back to her usual self.

I want to respond as I so often do, but no words make sense at the moment. If fuel wasn’t an issue and orders didn’t exist, I’d probably stay up and fly aimlessly for a little while. One of my favorite things about the deep, endless blue of the sky is the ability to focus on nothing and think. I am open and free up here.

Even as I adjust my bearing and head for home, forming up on Broadside’s wing, my mind is elsewhere. The image of the angry orange fireball careening down towards the water, to be swallowed by the sea, replays on a loop.  

Somewhere, there is a family unknowingly awaiting the end of their world. Who will never celebrate someone’s birthday again. Who will never sit around the dinner table and catch up. Who will never bicker or argue again. Who will never kiss someone important again. Who will never see childhood friends and catch up after so many lost years. Who will never grow old. Who will never write more to their story that being killed in a flaming wreck.

Instead, they will be greeted with earthshattering news, and not even a body to bury. Just a folded flag, some empty platitudes, a medal or two, an empty casket, and an even emptier life. Another photo goes up on walls of remembrance. Another friend and comrade will be spoken of in the past tense. Another bunk will lay empty in barracks, personal effects collected with the cruelty of indifference and the weight of unrelenting frequency.

Tonight, I don’t think the exhaustion will be enough to keep my mind from wandering and wondering.