American F-15C Eagles and a West German F-104G Starfighter above Neuschwanstein Castle as part of Exercise Reforger 82, September, 1982 (Credit: Wikimedia Commons)
Sequel to Mirror to the Sky
A pilot’s callsign is meant to be humorous, unflattering, and something bestowed upon them in a lighthearted fashion. It’s a sign of peacetime, never letting your brothers and sisters live down their dumbest mistakes and silliest mishaps.
I used to be called Electro, after I received a near-fatal shock while trying to fix the wiring in the barracks after some idiot shorted everything with a faulty coffee pot. Somehow, I got a nickname, but the coffee pot guy got off scot-free. Go figure.
My wingman’s callsign used to be Blizzard, because she spent twenty minutes during a snowstorm in whiteout conditions during winter training circling the airfield with no clue as to where she was. She never lived it down, and the nickname would always make it to her next squadron before she ever did.
One of the newer pilots in our unit commented after a particularly dangerous escort mission that I had enough tallies to fill a graveyard. The epithet was repeated enough with awe and respect and fear in the dark corners of our airbase that it stuck, and both friends and enemies know of my exploits as Graveyard. My wingman’s current nom de guerre is the similarly ominous Raven, a harbinger of death. Because where she flew, I would be right on her wing. And wherever the two of us darkened the skies, the rest of our squadron was quick to follow.
We are assigned to the 451st Tactical Fighter Squadron, under the command of the 4077th Strategic Strike Wing. Our squadron is nicknamed the Corsairs, and we have the merciless reputation to match.
Our AWACS is a cold, serious woman who goes by the callsign Redeye. During the battle for a major city, her team managed an impressive 78 hours on station, much longer than any other, to control what became a chaotic nighttime slugfest in the air. It was an outgrowth of her previous nickname, Bright Eye, as a sign of respect for her dedication in staying airborne and in control of communications and logistics above the airspace.
Since the war began sixteen months ago, more nations began to spiral in, anchored by ancient agreements, more recent defense pacts, or merely finding alignment based on self-interest. Several weeks ago, global communication networks were decimated by coordinated attacks on satellites, land-based communication arrays, and other targets. The resulting blackout made identifying friendly and enemy targets an absolute nightmare. AWACS operators are stressed to the breaking point to avoid any blue-on-blue incidents, and I am certain that the same headaches are being felt by our opponents. I hesitate to even call them enemies; nobody can explain why we’re still fighting. To think this all started because of some overzealous soldiers near a lighthouse. A year and a half might as well be a century.
Rolling emerald hills pockmarked by tilled fields and broken up by bands of trees and a sparkling sapphire river make the pastoral scene below almost perfect. This land dates back centuries, when the name on the map was different. I have crossed so many borders at this altitude over the years, and I don’t think I’ve ever recognized any of them.
In some sense, this is what a world without borders looks like.
Redeye calls to inform us that we’re on track to our objective. As much as I wish to continue sightseeing, we have a job to do. The 4077th was assembled using some of the best pilots from the various units across our air force to operate separately from the main fighting forces and conduct strikes deep inside enemy territory. We received intelligence about an enemy squadron of aces operating out of this area, codenamed Solitaire. They fly top of the line aircraft, and there are four members we know of, typically attached to larger units as force multipliers. We know little more than that they are some of the very best pilots our enemies have within their ranks. The squadron’s name was chosen because we used playing cards to represent them on a corkboard which were grabbed from a game of solitaire being played by a crew chief with the last name Wicker. We nicknamed their pilots Ace, King, Queen, and Jack.
I wonder if, perhaps, the names we bestowed upon our opponents have reached their ears. If Ace has painted an Ace of Spades on his tail or wings, to strike fear into his enemies the way an army holds aloft their banner, or a pirate ship hoists their colors. Names have power. They reshape reality. The right name applied to a person allows them to ascend from mere mortal to legend. Legends can inspire or terrify on the battlefield, and they are much easier to grow the less you know about someone.
Solitaire are four airplanes with fearsome reputations. They are not human. They do not have families, or favorite foods, or pictures from their days in school. They’ve never had first kisses or birthday parties. They are more myth than man. The suggestion of their very presence is enough to make seasoned pilots shake with fear. Do their skills reflect that? Have they merely gotten lucky all this time? Are these four the original ones from the establishment of their squadron? Have they even accomplished half of what the whispers say they have?
“Corsair 6-3, Corsair 7-4, two bogeys are at bearing three-twenty-two, vectored to the southwest at angels nine. Vector to intercept and identify.” Our first orders come in crisp and clear from Redeye.
My wingman and I turn towards the valley. In the far distance, the castle rises above a blanket of fog and scattered low clouds painted pink and orange by the setting sun. The river runs past villages of tan houses and stores, no doubt replete with centuries-old churches and cobblestone streets and lamps which have seen thousands of lovers’ kisses beneath their hazy light. The picturesque scatterings of civilization are the last remnants of a lost kingdom, a nation whose borders were erased and its territory claimed by its neighbors as a result of a war it had no hand in starting.
The people in the houses below us had no hand in starting this war either. Yet it has arrived on their doorstep. We close in on the castle, no sign of our targets. The lights of the castle city starting to flicker on in the dying light of day remind me that there are lives below. Much like the enemy pilots we hunt, they are faceless shadows to us. Logically, I understand that they are cowering in their basements and beneath tables because of the terrifying harbingers of death and destruction which have torn apart the sky and shattered the peaceful silence over their peaceful little city. However, they are not known to me. Their faces, their histories, their interests are all a mystery. I merely tear a hole through skies over their entire lives even as I know not a single thing about any of them. Despite the official rules of engagement saying nothing on the matter, my own guilt compels me exercise all possible caution when shooting down our enemy.
Without rules, we are no longer soldiers, merely butchers. In the days of old, military aviators were sold as knights of the sky; chivalrous jousters with a code of honor who duel with a sense of nobility. The most gentlemanly of fighters risking their lives for the noblest of causes, for crown and country and to protect those lines drawn on a map to determine where one place ends and their neighbor begins. Those lines are invisible from my altitude, and I doubt they’d mean much even if they could be seen.
The idea of continuing to fight at all seems alien after so much blood and death spilled on virgin earth. As the war wore on, the mentions of righteousness or the cause for which we were supposedly fighting have dwindled. Revenge and rage have risen to take their place. We are compelled to continue fighting through anger directed towards the enemy. We seek vengeance for our brothers and sisters who have fallen during these months. Only a fool would assume they continue to fight for more noble reasons.
The town square is marked by the old church’s towering spire. The square hosted protests in the face of a nation being erased. I remember the footage when I was a boy, on a grainy television set. The crowds then are probably still living here now, reminded by the roaring of our engines burning a path through the sky above them that once again, they are at the mercy of powers they have no hope of reasoning with, restraining or redirecting.
“Redeye, I tally two bogeys,” I call in, confirming them on the radar screen before me.
“Corsair 6-3, try to get close enough for a positive ID on the target before engaging. We want to avoid a blue-on-blue incident, but you are cleared to fire if fired upon. Confirm.”
“Confirm, Redeye. ID target using the uplink before engaging, cleared to fire if fired upon,” I read back. Since the communication networks went down, the Identification Friend or Foe systems we’ve all relied upon have been spotty at best. Ensuring you don’t shoot your own pilots down means getting close enough to capture images with the cameras on our aircraft and then sending them via the uplink to the local databases carried by our AWACS planes. It’s an imperfect system, but it’s better than firing blind. Unfortunately, it also means beyond-visual-range combat is functionally nonexistent, making every engagement a dogfight. Today will be no different.
“Graveyard, I now show four contacts. Confirm,” my wingman’s voice is ice and steel. Both of us have seen enough to remain unshaken, almost apathetic, when a mission goes sideways.
Between sweeps of my radar, the two contacts split into four. “I copy, Raven. Confirm four bogeys.”
Both of us immediately understand the other pilots’ strategy. The unidentified contacts were two pairs of wingmen flying in close formation. They know of our presence and are closing fast based on their heading. Either they split to purposefully show up as their true number to intimidate, or they are assuming attack formations.
“Raven, we need to close and get pictures for the local IFF database,” I remind my wingman.
“Copy that, Corsair 7-4 merging,” Raven informs us. Flying directly towards enemies which have us outnumbered by a two-to-one ratio is practically suicide. Then again, what is to say continuing to fight this war is anything but exercising suicidal ideation on a mass scale?
The unidentified aircraft appear as small specks in the distance. Raven and I angle our noses towards them. The dark specks grow rapidly. I hope our cameras capture enough to identify these aircraft as friendlies or enemies. In the span of a few moments which simultaneously last an eternity and pass entirely too quickly, the dark blurs rip past us into the sky behind us, distinct against the warm impressionist painting of the sunset on the clouds.
I could not see the flag on his aircraft. Nor do I think it would matter. Flags are a reason to fight which all parties involved have long since discarded. I am unsure of who is even directing our missions anymore in the absence of constant communication. Perhaps the war is over, and we are the last remnants on a distant island fighting for something the rest of the world has already passed by.
“Corsair 6-3, Corsair 7-4, bogeys are confirmed as enemy aircraft. Marking them on your IFF, you are cleared to engage,” Redeye informs us.
“Master arm on, master arm on,” I narrate my flipping of the switch which readies my weapons. Raven echoes my announcement in a flat voice. A ceaseless numbness to the implications of every engagement has taken hold over both of us. I cannot tell if it’s boredom, apathy, resignation, or denial.
I had almost wished they were not the subject of our search. My trigger finger has grown weary and my mind even wearier. The waves of guilt have long since subsided as my kill count has grown. Adding another few tallies to my total evokes apathy bordering on sickness.
Our adversaries have chosen to engage. One pair breaks off and climbs while the other two remain level with us. A quick confirmation of our plan, and we press ourselves against our seats with the force of gravity in a tight turn. Pontification must wait; the hunt is at hand.
My radar picks up the two at our altitude. “Corsair 6-3, Fox one.” A semi-active radar homing missile falls away from my aircraft and tears an angry path through the sky and blows one of the enemy aircraft to bits. The odds are slightly evened. “Splash one.”
“Corsair 7-4, Fox one.” Raven takes her cue from me once more, and her missile follows mine. The enemy aircraft performs a barrel roll, dropping flares and chaff, and her radar guided missile flies wide and away from her opponent’s aircraft.
“Raven, take the lead, I’ll back you up,” I bid my partner. She pulls ahead of me slightly and fires another missile while I keep an eye out for our two remaining opponents. The principles of dogfighting determine that they will attack from above in a dive from the direction of the sun. However, the sun is low in the sky and not as bright, so they may be reduced to using the light cloud cover for the advantage.
“Corsair 7-4, splash one!” Raven calls out a successful kill with the slightest hint of excitement and pride in her voice. With her fifteenth kill, she is crowned a triple ace. An accomplishment worthy of remark amidst even this wretched war.
My warning alarms blare in a panic at the missile locked onto my aircraft.
“Corsair 6-3, defending!” I call out. I pull the stick back hard and to the right, rolling myself up and over to try and shake the missile. At the apex of my roll, gravity threatening my consciousness, the alarm still screams. I hit release on my chaff and flares to confuse the projectile threatening my life. An agonizing moment of uncertainty as I’m inverted until I watch the missile streak across my vision, towards the ground.
I pray that the civilians below are not in harm’s way. This place has been behind the frontlines for so long, and we chose to mar its beauty with the ugly scars of our bloodletting.
“Raven, what’s your status?”
“They’re on my six! I can’t shake them!”
I reorient myself to fly level and try to spot the engagement. Lefthand side, ahead of me towards the setting sun are the two aircraft rolling and flipping over each other while harassing my wingman. I throttle up to catch them in time.
“Redeye, can you vector reinforcements to assist?” I inquire of our controller.
“Negative, Corsair 6-3, you’re on your own.”
I grit my teeth beneath my mask and breathe intentionally. Raven is currently jerking her plane back and forth to avoid either of the enemies to get a lock on them.
“Raven, on my signal, break hard left and climb.”
“That’ll leave me too exposed!”
“Just do it! I’m firing a heat-seeker, and my nose is pointed to your right. I want you clear as fast as possible. I’ll deal with the guy.”
“Rodger, on your signal.” Raven is rattled, and she does not approve of my plan, but I have no time to think of another one.
I count down and the moment her plane pulls up, my heat-seeker races towards the enemy planes. “Corsair 6-3, Fox two, Fox two.”
The target peels off and drops flares, causing my missile to go wide. I pull my nose up and strain myself to get around and go to guns on the second, but he fires a missile which Raven cannot avoid.
“Corsair 7-4, punching out!” As I hear her transmission, Raven’s canopy is blown clear and she ejects from her aircraft. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief when I see her parachute. I set aside the guilt for now. My plan ended with her floating towards the ground in nominally hostile territory alone.
“Redeye, confirm parachute on Corsair 7-4, send search-and-rescue immediately.”
“Solid copy, Corsair 6-3. Parachute confirmed.” Redeye gives me no indication if the second part of my transmission even crossed her mind. Instead of the black ring of unconsciousness creeping into my vision, the red of rage begins to appear. Whatever happens now, I kill them both.
The engines roar as my afterburners kick in, and I race towards the closest enemy target. My best hope is to be as aggressive as possible and place myself so close to one aircraft that his wingman who will inevitably drop onto my tail will be too hesitant to fire. I squeeze my trigger as I close the distance, sending a few volleys of cannon fire ripping through the fading daylight. It’s enough to rattle my quarry, and he attempts to dive towards the emerald hills painted with pink and orange. I cut throttle and settle myself onto his rear, squeezing off another burst of fire which sounds like the sky being savagely torn apart.
Raven’s life is at risk because of them. They must fall from the sky for that.
His friend drops in behind me, exactly as I predicted. Adrenaline spikes and my perception of time slows. The familiar wave of danger washes over me, heightens my senses. The colors are more vibrant on the hills and clouds, I am aware of all my display screens at once, and I swear I can hear the groans and creaks of the enemy’s wings as one attempts to sight me up and the other tries to avoid my gaze. I ready my last heat-seeker. The exhaust from his engines is so close that it might melt the paint on my aircraft. In the mirrors on my cockpit, his friend stays far enough behind me, attempting to avoid the same fate.
The plan takes final shape in my mind. I flip a toggle on my control stick in anticipation and squeeze the trigger. Immediately, I pull back hard on the stick and stall my aircraft. The plan was to execute a tight loop and take advantage of my opponent’s hesitation and reluctance to engage. My nose lines up to point at the ground as he flies beneath me. My cannon bisects his aircraft in brutal fashion, and it tumbles towards the ground in flames and fury. I level out and go to full throttle to make a recovery and watch as the last two remaining enemies tumble to the ground.
I quickly confirm the first aircraft was indeed hit by my missile. My second victim of the day follows my third tumbling towards the earth, though I spot one parachute between the two. The bloodlust urges me to turn my nose to the helpless pilot and squeeze off a burst of fire to shred the parachute or his tiny body. I flick my master arm switch to safe to avoid giving into temptation as my heartrate slows considerably and I process my feat.
Supermaneuvrability was always a gimmick at airshows, something to show off capabilities of an aircraft but useless in combat scenarios. Since the situation with our IFF necessitated dogfighting, I used unorthodox tools for vengeance. I became that which I derided as unnecessary in the war, a disquieting thought which must wait a moment longer.
“Redeye, this is Corsair 6-3. Four enemy aircraft destroyed.”
“Copy Corsair 6-3, return home.”
“Request permission to stay on station and assist Corsair 7-4.”
“Negative, 6-3, return to base immediately. Enemy aircraft are being scrambled to your position, get the hell out of there.”
“Rodger, Redeye. Corsair 6-3 returning to base.”
I allow myself one last sorrowful look at the picturesque countryside, now corrupted with the ugliness of this war, before turning myself towards friendly lines and pushing my throttle higher. I considered myself above all of it and still fell victim to the same violent temptation of revenge. The legend of Graveyard has grown, and the enemy will continue to know fear when I enter the airspace. Yet it leaves my chest a hollow cavity, and the breath in my lungs feels lacking in everything necessary for it to sustain life.
If vengeance feels so hollow, and becoming mythical is so disdainful, why do I continue to fight? The name the world knows me by shall only grow in legend, yet above the earth, the borders at the heart of this conflict seem not to matter. War reaches out and mutilates lost kingdoms and innocent souls in the service of growing legends with impressive names to inspire more death and destruction.
If Raven does not return home from being on the run, the spirit of vengeance which has so troublingly possessed me may be turned on my allies. Her death behind borders which had no business playing host to even a minor skirmish in this damnable war, will not be used to justify another son or daughter headed towards the slaughter.
No border is worth the price we pay in service of forging legends in blood.
Ark of the Lost Angels 
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