US Navy F/A-18F Super Hornet launching off the deck of the USS Nimitz, May 19th, 2022 (Credit: US Pacific Fleet)
In honor of Ace Combat 8’s release this week, another tale of aces and war.
Sequel to Mirror to the Sky, Lost Kingdom, and Terminal Guidance.
There comes a time when every warrior must lay down their sword. There is a cloud of guilt which comes when walking away from a far my countrymen were fighting, but I became a liability after taking on Solitaire squadron. After the combat in Atalsia, across an ocean and deep behind enemy lines, when I got my wingman killed, I decided enough was enough. I submitted my papers and left for greener pastures. I hadn’t imagined what it would be like to get out during wartime, but the combination of a weight being lifted from my chest and a cloud of guilt hanging over my head was never on the list of possibilities.
I arrived on this artificial island several days ago. The Bolton-Ritter Institute for Advanced Research is the location of the most cutting edge science in the world. Named after its founders Anna Bolton and Kathleen Ritter, the Institute is located on a series of man-made structures in the middle of the ocean. Brilliant minds from across the globe work here to further humanity’s scientific development unconstrained by international politics, national borders, or other interests. As the war raged across continents, major efforts were undertaken to keep the Institute neutral.
Unfortunately, the Institute’s neutrality also comes with downsides. Over the years, many pirates, privateers, and mercenary groups have attempted to plunder the treasures developed here, often times for use in weapons of war. The Institute, with the tacit blessing of the world’s powers, maintains a small but capable defense force consisting of former navy ships and aircraft, with multiple platforms outfitted with the capabilities to launch and recover navy aircraft. While these are tantalizing prizes for pirates to raid during wartime, this is still a quieter job than I had with the 4077th.
Naturally, a quiet posting away from the war attracted me. Already disillusioned with these pathetic lines we draw on maps to excuse killing each other, protecting something focused on advancing the planet’s interests as a whole feels right. I am able to use the skills I gained by killing people for something other than advancing someone else’s geopolitical ambitions.
The war has sprawled. Since the Federation capital was destroyed in a nuclear flash last month, advanced weapons have entered the wild. Everyone still fighting spends their spare time searching for every possible advantage. Allies have turned on each other in fear or opportunistic greed. The paranoia over who exactly set off that bomb that turned the Federation’s crown jewel into ash has left everyone side-eyeing each other.
Despite being placed into a leadership role for the air wing’s forces, I still pulled night shift for at least the first month by virtue of being the newbie. My time here so far has been quiet, but there are quite a large number of other places I would rather be than hanging out in the ready room next to the ops center for the entire complex. Fortunately, if something does happen, the flight deck is also extremely close.
Of course I would be mentally moaning about the boredom when the warning alarms blare. I order some of the pilots under my command to head out to the flight deck and get our planes ready to fly. I step into the ops center to check in.
The Director of Security is a former Admiral who was drummed out of his nation’s navy for refusing to assault civilian cargo vessels about three years ago. We all call him skipper. He’s the maestro conducting the orchestra of disaster response to an incoming attack with experience and grace. He handpicked all of his subordinates from former military officers who showed discipline, efficiency, and a strong moral code. As a result, the competence of the ops center rivals or surpasses that of many major military operations still blowing the hell out of each other all over the world.
One of the security officers reports in, “Sir, sensor buoys in sectors 2, 7, and 11 are down.”
The Admiral sighs and scowls. “Is there anything on long rage sensors?”
“Negative.”
“And the patrol flights haven’t spotted anything?”
“Negative.”
The communications officer responsible for coordinating with the surface warfare element of the defense fleet chimes in. “Sir! Sonar has an unidentified submarine, unknown class.”
The Admiral turns towards the air boss, “Who’s on ready five?”
‘Ready five’ is a term for the squadron currently prepared to launch in five minutes once the order is given. Most often they’re in the aircraft, but we don’t always follow that rule. Tonight, it’s my squadron, and no, we weren’t following the rule.
“That would be Mystic and Guardian squadrons, sir.”
The Admiral grits his teeth. “Launch Mystic, refit Guardian with anti-submarine weapons before launching, and send out the sub hunters. Everyone else is now on ready five.”
“Yes sir!” the air boss responds and begins barking out orders.
The Admiral turns towards his deputy. “Gunnar, activate all dedicated damage control teams, sound the attack alarm, and activate all point defenses. I want every CIWS up and activated, triple check all IFFs, everywhere. And point every machine gun we have outward.”
“Aye skipper.”
The officer in charge of monitoring the early warning systems says something to the air boss before he turns towards me. “Graveyard, we’re up against suicide weapons from that submarine. Prep Mystic accordingly and take out as many as you can.”
“Yes sir.” I snap off a salute by reflex before bolting out to my aircraft. It’s no longer required, I don’t wear a uniform any more, but this is a combat scenario and these people are my responsibility, so old habits prove exceedingly hard to break.
Someone has hired a team of mercenaries to assault the Institute.
While climbing into my aircraft, I brief Mystic on what we’re dealing with. The hostile submarine is launching swarms of red eyes, which are small drones in the shape of red diamonds and packed with explosives. They’re often used in saturation attacks like this one, where the hope is to cause mass amounts of damage for very little cost. To me, that screams mercenary forces, probably some group using stealth to cause damage and panic in order to drop by later and offer their services to protect this facility in exchange for a ‘modest’ fee and access to swipe some of the advanced equipment being designed here.
The Institute built the defense platforms using the same equipment as an aircraft carrier: electromagnetic aircraft launch systems for takeoffs and arresting wires for landings. The identical nature of our flight operations to those onboard carriers is why many of the pilots here were picked from navies all over the world. While carrier qualified, I primarily flew with a land-based squadron.
Our birds are older, retired and passed onto the Institute to finish out the remainder of their usable life. Mine is the older model of one such craft I piloted back when I did briefly serve with a carrier unit. In some ways, it’s just like coming home.
The lights on the flight deck, guiding us to line up with the catapults, are the only beacons around. As I watch Guardian squadron taxi, floodlights boom to life, scanning the horizon for our quarry. Point defense guns spin up and try to track any object which might be the suicide weapons, but they’ll be too small for the radar to capture. Our best bet to stop this attack is to put an end to whoever started it.
Guardian’s planes light up the night sky with afterburners before being flung into the dark by the catapults. Choreographed down to the second, in perfect rhythm, one-two-three-four. The conductor’s count off to a dissonant symphony. The ground crew wave us forward, and we take our positions on the flight line.
I taxi to the catapult and the deck crew links me up. The routine calls and checks come tinged with the bitter jolt of dire adrenaline. I confirm that I’m set on my end, I throttle up and brace myself. The moments between when the final ‘go’ is given and when takeoff occurs comes with the tightest tension, the way a giant cat prepares to pounce.
The same four beat count-off sends Mystic into the shadowed skies on the heels of Guardian. I grab the handle as my plane is flung with a mighty jolt into the skies at full afterburner, shoving me back into my feet at the sheer change in velocity. The catapult flings my aircraft off the deck and into the night sky. I stow the gear, and assume formation with the rest of Mystic.
With no AWACS around, our flight control is handled by the long range radar team on one of the platforms, callsign ‘Iceberg.’
“Mystic Squadron,” Iceberg calls in, “Vector to bearing zero-three-two for intercept.”
“Rodger Iceberg, adjusting vector,” I respond as we turn towards the oncoming suicide weapons.
“How the hell are we going to shoot these things down?” Mystic 2 asks.
“Gun kills. Watch your ammo consumption, but the spray should better your odds of hitting one and causing a chain reaction,” Mystic 4 responds.
Glowing embers appear on the horizon as we race towards them. A swarm of red eyes glides through the darkness.
“Guardian, break off and hunt that fucking submarine. Mystic, disperse and engage. Check your radar to make sure the enemy hasn’t left us any surprises,” I order. My squadron breaks away and starts slashing tracers through the red cloud, causing loud bursts of explosions to rattle us in the sky. Every pass causes the red diamonds to transform into a cloud of orange and gray smoke. But with every fiery thunderclap, the swarm of angry fireflies continues their drift towards the Institute and every innocent soul who works there.
As the skirmish wears on, my turns get tighter. We develop a pattern, crisscrossing the buzzing cloud, hearing the occasional call from Guardian with no luck finding the submarine launching these things. There’s only so much of the tide that one can hold back with the broom, and the distance between the self-destruct weapons and the artificial islands housing humanity’s best and brightest keeps contracting ever so slightly. Just enough every wave to make us think that we might be okay, the way they say a frog stays in slowly boiling water until it gets killed.
“Guardian 3! I’m spiked! I’m spiked!”
A distant fireball punctuates the panicked yell as the radio crackles dead static. A new unidentified contact appears on my radar, closing fast, and something rips almost invisible through the night sky past me. My plane shudders in the wake of the unidentified flying object as it rips apart the illusion that this was a normal, ill-equipped pirate raid.
Something just came out of the darkness and killed yet another friend. The bloodletting has followed me all the way out to the middle of nowhere.
“Mystic squadron, break off and cover the remainder of Guardian in case anyone else is waiting for them. Bandit is mine,” I order, “Iceberg, you will have to rely on point defenses to protect the platforms.”
“Roger, Graveyard. Good hunting.”
The clouds part above as though they were curtains, revealing a full moon casting its light on the waters, painting them a faded gold and lighting the sky blue. My opponent is illuminated by the shift in conditions, scoffing over an uncontrolled radio frequency before throttling up, letting his afterburners signal to me where he is.
“So you’re the one they were worried about.” He is both calm and smug. He wanted to make this deliberately easy for me.
Whatever shift in the wind parted the blanket of clouds which kept the night dark around the Institute picked up in intensity, and the reflection of the full moon’s light on the water makes it almost distinguishable from late daylight.
“Guardian 1, confirmed hit on the submarine! He looks like he’s bugging out!” calls the sub-hunting squadron.
“All Mystic and Guardian units not already engaged, return to protect the Institute from the suicide weapons,” Iceberg orders, a slight edge of panic making its way through his voice.
My opponent whizzes by me again. My eyes dart over the dials and gauges in the cockpit, glowing a faint red with the backlight for a night flight. Fuel is at 40%, all the maneuvering from earlier has cost it dearly, and I only have just over a hundred cannon rounds left. It should be enough to kill this son of a bitch.
I throttle up and the chase commences once again. Unlike in the skies over Atalsia, there is no one else to protect. There is nobody to help me. I can do what needs to be done.
The dramatic acceleration pins me to my seat once more, but his plane is far newer and more maneuverable. I twist towards the water in pursuit, but he catches air and floats past me before I can level off. I check my rear to spot two missiles streaking towards me. Without any alarms from the radar warning receiver, I can conclude that these are heatseekers. I pull back hard on the stick and roll the aircraft, the g forces compressing my lungs like an elephant is sitting on my chest. Luckily, my fingers still move well enough to hit the button to drop flares. With the throttle cut, the heat from the flares draws the missiles away and they track past, blowing up when their automated fuses hit their pre-determined expiration time.
“This is Institute security to all forces, we’ve been hit, we’ve been hit. Platforms two, seven, and thirteen have all taken damage!” the Admiral’s voice barks in my ear. Some of the weapons make it to the Institute. This needs to be taken care of, right now.
The enemy pilot is above me on my five o’clock. Another missile is fired. I slam the button for my flares, hearing the popping of their deployment as I pull up and to the right, cutting throttle. His plane does a loop around me to stay on my tale while I pull inverted to dive back down. I dive closer to the water, but he handles it better than I expected, glued to my tail.
Desperation gives way to genius. The moment I level out and he fires another missile, I pull back and execute a loop, corkscrewing around his flight path to try and get behind him. The tension presses me to my seat once more, but aerodynamics allows me to bleed speed and get behind him. I fire both of my missiles at him, hoping we’re too close for any fancy maneuvering.
The bastard pops flares and pulls a Kvochur’s bell to bleed airspeed. My missiles fly right past, but I pull hard on the stick again to try and line up a gun shot. I squeeze the trigger as he falls past me to no avail.
Back on my tail, the merc fires one more missile. More flares, another desperate dodge. My fuel reserves are dangerously low. I can’t keep this up. The fire of the missile’s engine helps me see just enough to watch as it doesn’t break for the flares. I make a desperate roll and turn away as it detonates, shredding my plane. Half a dozen warning lights illuminate my cockpit in a mix of yellows and reds. Controls are sluggish but I manage to level off. I cannot maneuver, and Iceberg’s desperate calls to Mystic and Guardian are met with the panicked screams of pilots too far away to help.
“You put up a good fight, but I’ve got to finish this. Got a fat bonus waiting for bringing my client your head,” the mercenary gloats.
The last of his missiles streaks towards me. My flares click empty as it closes in. Only the roar of another approaching fighter as they cross my tail overpowers the voice in my head screaming obscenities at my impending death. The flashes of their flares are quickly washed out when the missile detonates close enough to shake my aircraft without harming it.
“All Bolton-Ritter Institute defense forces, this is Fadeout of the Alliance 4077th Strategic Strike Wing. We are on station and ready to assist,” an unfamiliar voice introduces himself. Calm, cool, collected, and the callsign is extremely recognizable. My savior is none other than Maximilien Krauss, a man I heard stories about in the months leading up to the battle over the Federation’s former capital of Vannetover. Before the city was wiped out in a nuclear explosion nobody still has any clue who launched.
“Fadeout, I can’t move, I can’t fight. Can you help me nail this bastard?” I respond on an open channel. I want him to hear it. A mercenary who got a lucky shot in to know his days amongst the living is limited.
“Roger that, you go low, I’ll go high.”
I bring my plane around to track the opponent. I have two more missiles, sending them both towards him with the hunger for a kill of a starving tiger. As predicted, he pulls up and back, right into the missile from my savior, distributing the pieces of his airplane into the ocean.
“Fadeout, thanks for the assist,” I exhale the breath I couldn’t help but hold with all of the maneuvering, sucking in as much oxygen as I can. “I didn’t expect to see the 4077th all the way out here.”
“We thought you guys could use some help,” he chuckles.
“What about the Alliance General Staff? I’m sure high command has some thoughts about you coming all this way on your own.”
The next chuckle is darker. “Since comms went down, high command hasn’t told us much of anything.”
Fadeout forms up on my wing, as if to lean in to say the next part.
“We’ve been on our own. Warmongers from all sides are using every scrap of advanced tech they can get their hands on to continue this war. Some want revenge for the nuke on Vannetover, others want to crush the Federation still fighting after the loss of their capital city. And I think some just plain enjoy the bloodlust.”
“Sounds like I left society just before the world blew up,” I sigh. I am too tired to feel much emotion, let alone show it to anyone else.
“We came out here to ask you to come back. The 4077th still needs leaders, and you’re one of the best pilots that flew for the Alliance, and for what’s left of Reindall.”
“I-”
“All I’m asking is for you to think about it.”
“This is the Institute to all members of the 4077th, you are welcome to land at our facility for fuel, supplies, and rest. Sounds like you all need it,” Iceberg cuts in.
“All right, Amethyst Flight. Form an orderly line and get ready to get back on solid ground. Well, something along those lines,” Fadeout orders in the warmly detached tone which seems to be his trademark.
Something about the skies have always felt like home. A distant, unconventional, slightly uncomfortable home, but a home nonetheless. I think that was the reason I chose to start fighting all those years ago. Why I learned to fly. Or was it some ancient misplaced patriotism? Seven hells, I don’t even remember now.
The idea of finishing this war in hopes a new one never starts crosses my mind. It’s foolish, shortsighted, even downright idiotic to think that attitude can possibly prevail. It’s justified atrocity, conflict, and suffering in droves for the entirety of history. And still its siren call beckons me back towards the life I just barely got out of.
The glow of the rising sun paints the edges of the horizon a vibrant red, bouncing between the water and the clouds.
“All right, Fadeout. I’m in.”
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