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White Knights _ By Stephen Doyle _

Chapter One July 18th 2017 Airspace over Tajikistan 18:00 hours

The formation of three F-15E Strike Eagles sliced through the thin, hot desert air. Below, the mountainous terrain of Northern Tajikistan was dotted with the occasional flash of whitewashed buildings, and more dismally the curling smoke of smouldering fires as buildings and vehicles burned. Tajikistan had become an unfortunate battleground, its' carcass picked apart by warring states on all sides. Terrorist groups, financed and supplied by Iranian hard-line militants -as it had turned out, after some examination - had spilled over into Pakistan, and then once embattled by the Pakistani military - with international assistance - into China, and back into Tajikistan. The Chinese had fought back, assaulting the terrorists' bases, and suspected training areas and gathering places, leading to more death and destruction. The Iranians had declared this an atrocity against Islamic peoples, and offered all assistance to the Tajikistani government in combating the invasion, while the Russian government, their former allies, had severed ties after the changes in the countries political leadership after the internal strife had resulted in an overthrow of the government. The Iranian leadership had likewise severed ties with the Chinese, declaring them enemies to the Middle East. They had mobilised their own forces against the Chinese, and the free peoples of Tajikistan, along with the Pakistani government had appealed for international help against the threat presented to them. The string of events had culminated in a multinational force being deployed to the region, and the battle joined on all sides. With Tajikistan landlocked, and surrounded by neutral - or hostile - countries on almost all sides, only Afghanistan and Pakistan offered bases, along with Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, which made the logistics and basing for all allied force dangerous and difficult for everyone involved. All eyes were watching the region - everyone knew the capabilities of China and Iran, as well as Pakistan. The world itself was holding its breath, and watching closely as the war ground on, like some kind of hungry machine, eager to suck in more lives to fill the hole.

None of this was any consequence to the crews of the trio of Strike Eagles as they rumbled onward through the air, buffeted softly by rising thermals as they made their way south. They were concerned with keeping themselves alive, and carrying out the mission they'd been assigned and briefed on. As such, the pilots and their back-seat Weapon System Operators - or WSO's - kept their attention split between the screens of their instruments, and the skies around them. The caution was justified; as there'd already been plenty of downed planes and pilots in the first months of the war. Pakistani F-16's had gone down in droves to the advanced SAM systems the Iranians were fielding. Not to mention the wide variety of variants of the agile, fast, and powerfully armed 'Flanker' series of fighters that both the Islamic Republic and China were fielding. As well as that, there was the news that a B-2 Spirit, the 'invisible' stealth bomber had been shot down, and they'd reported, in a panic, seeing their attacker as a 'stealth fighter', of some kind.

In the lead Strike Eagle of the flight, the pilot searched the skies a final time, before looking around his cockpit, his gloved hands tightening on the throttle and stick for a moment, a growl in his throat. The pointed ears under his helmet flattened against his skull. The sense of danger was with him, crawling through the air like the invisible radio waves that probed out from the nose of the jet ahead of him. It was everywhere, but nowhere at once. Hunting, like he and his wingmen were... His fur fluffed out in irritation under his flight suit, and he squirmed on the uncomfortable ejection seat. Despite the shoddy air conditioning in the jets' cockpit, the sun beating through the Plexiglas canopy was hot. He gave an irritable grumble, and looked up. For a moment, his gaze caught his reflection in the canopies' rear-view mirrors, and he considered the warm, brown eyes looking back at him. The thrill for flying was there, as it always was. As it had been since he'd been on his first flight. Maybe even earlier, when he'd watched aircraft soar over his head, shaking the skies over his family home in Georgia. But now it was tempered with age and experience. The vulpine pilot shook his head, and looked out of the canopy as the desert rolled by below, his ears flattening to his skull in a note of disappointment. Sean wasn't keen on the landscape. He had nothing against mountains, or even the desert. In other circumstances, it'd probably have been a fascinating, beautiful landscape. But right now, it was a long way from the place he thought of as home, and was just another place for SAMs to hide out in, and reach out to wipe him, and his wingmen, out of the sky. He checked the radar display in his cockpit again, punching the buttons alongside the multi-function display to reset the range. Nothing showing that they had to be concerned about on any of the sweeps, which was exactly the way he wanted it. He could rest a little easier for a moment, knowing there was nothing obvious about to threaten him or his friends. His concern for them, he felt, was natural. He was a Captain in the USAF, and had been trained and schooled to look out for his people, to form a bond with them - and it was one he was happy to have. All of them were good people, and they looked out for one another - as they should, and must. "Coming up on the waypoint in ten, Blade," sounded a voice over the radio in his helmet. "Blade," he replied as confirmation, and glanced into the mirrors mounted onto the canopy frame. He caught a brief glance back from the eyes of his WSO - or Wizzo - Jon 'Birdie' Finch. The raccoon gave a nod, and a half-wave, before returning to his instruments. In the back seat, he had control of all the targeting systems, the map displays, and weapons. Not to mention a full backup of all the flight controls, should they be needed. It was the same across all three of the jets - the Strike Eagle was a potent warplane, and he loved being in control of it. Developed from an air-to-air fighter, the 'Mudhen', as it was informally known kept most of the same agility and power that made the stock F-15 so deadly, and added advanced avionics, and the ability to carry virtually any kind of air-to-ground hardware available, as well as the same air-to-air arsenal its' parent aircraft could pack. The result was a plane that could do nearly anything very well, and had been doing so since the mid nineteen eighties - with a good deal of success. The fox gave a small smile, and patted the plastic coating of the instrument panel with one gloved hand, before returning his attention to the mission. Jon had been right - the waypoint, one of many preloaded into the airplanes' mission computer before they took off, was almost on them. That meant it was time to get his game-face on, and get into his combat mindset, instead of getting reflective about his career, and his aircraft. He looked out of the canopy at the sky ahead, taking his left hand off of the throttle to press through his survival vest and flight suit, to find the shape of what he knew was a flattened disk of metal with a hole in the centre, not much bigger than a quarter. It hung halfway down his chest, tied to a leather thong. He'd been given it years ago, passed down from his grandfather. To him, it was a good luck charm, and he took it on every mission. He knew it was a stupid superstition - but all the same, it made him feel better. He wedged a small smile in place on his muzzle, and put his hand back on the throttle, feeling ready to start the mission. "All aircraft check in," he called over the squadrons' assigned frequency. His voice was firm, and had a rough edge. "Striker two here," replied a tough, firm, female voice; Taia, his second in command. The cougar was almost as old as he was, and aside from Jon, had been the only other member of the flight who'd been on as many missions as him. Most of them the same ones, too, side by side. "No problems, all systems nominal". "Striker three," replied another male voice. Younger in tone, and more excitable, it belonged to Josh, the pilot of third aircraft in the flight. He was much younger than either he or Taia, but he showed skill and a lot of talent. And in the missions they'd flown so far, he'd proved he had that skill too. "No problems with my aircraft," he replied. "Everything's looking good". "Everything's green here too," Sean finished, "and we're on time to target. Take formation positions, and let's fly it like we were briefed" The trio of jets slid further apart in the air, the near-black of their bodies gleaming in the glare from the desert sun. Sean and Jon's plane was in the middle of the formation, with Josh and his WSO Baxter at the head. Taia bought up the rear; her skills ensuring that if anything was missed, she'd get it - and also be able to perform a battle-damage assessment. Now in formation, the squadron were ready. All that was left was for a last check-in with their AWACs plane, controlling the battle-space and all the Allied assets in it. "Highball, this is Blade. We're at the last waypoint - any update on the target?" "Blade, Highball. The drone aircraft reports that the Shahab missiles are still in their road march configuration. They're preparing to move again, out of cover. There's no sign of SAM threat so far, but there may be man-portable SAMs in the area. Reading no air forces either, so you're clear to engage". "Roger," replied Sean. "Striker three will be first in, with me and Striker three following. Keep us covered, Highball, over" "Wilco, Blade. Good hunting, over". The vulpine slid the visor of his helmet over his eyes against the glare, and powered on the helmet-mounted sighting system. Symbols appeared on his vision, showing the current aim of the various sensor systems aboard the plane. "Ready, Birdie?" he said over the radio circuit, looking down and punching in the last commands to arm the jets' weapons, and take a fix on their position. "Birdie," he said as confirmation. "Locked, loaded, and ready to make the sky cave in on 'em, Major." "Roger," he called back, his muzzle pulling into a half smile. "Master, it's on you. Engage at will". "Roger," came back the reply. Despite the short, professional reply, Sean frowned as he heard an undercurrent of wavering doubt in the Squirrels' voice. He rubbed his gloved thumb over the weapon release button, but held fire. He wasn't in range, and could only watch as the lead Strike Eagle banked away, and headed for the ground, dropping like a hawk toward the open valley - and, he picked out, the boxy shapes of vehicles trundling along a road below.

Josh held the Strike Eagle steady in the diving bank, before rolling out at two thousand feet above ground level. He glanced at the HUD, and keyed the radio button for Baxter. "Railroad, it's all yours. Find a nice fat missile, and blow it to the sky". The plane was loaded with a mix of weapons for the job. Under each wing it carried a single AIM-9X Sidewinder short-range air-to-air missile, and a single AIM-120D AMRAAM medium-range air-to-air missile, as well as a 2,000-pound Paveway-III laser-guided bomb. As well as this, six cluster bombs hung off of fuselage pylons. And last, but not least, the plane carried an internally-mounted six-barrelled 20mm gatling cannon for anything else that dared to rear its' head. The chosen weapon for the destruction of the surface-to-surface missiles was the combination of Paveway bombs and cluster bombs - tried and tested during the Gulf war in 1991, it had been repeated again. On the bottom of the jets' body was a pair of targeting and guidance pods, packing a variety of sensor and targeting systems to guide weapons to their targets, and guide the plane in all weather. Now Baxter 'Railroad' Stockman was using the laser mounted in one of the pods to guide and track the Paveway to its' target. "Firing laser," he called out over the radio. Invisibly, the straight finger of the laser leapt across the distance in less than a heartbeat, bouncing back in the same heartbeat. The target was established and recognised, and the plane on course - all that was left was for Baxter to let fly with the ordnance. He kept his eyes on the target, the helmet-mounted system keeping the weapon on track as he thumbed the weapon release trigger on the joystick between his knees. The Paveway fell away from the jet, fins springing open as it rolled slowly through the air, the vanes twitching and jerking as it guided itself onto the shape of the rolling MRBM launcher, whistling through the air, before terminating its' brief flight in a blossoming cloud of flame and smoke. Instantly, tracer rounds sprang up from the ground to assault the speeding jet - which had already released a second bomb, impacting and shattering the shape of the Shahab launcher at the rear of the convoy, boxing in those at the middle. "Good hits, good hits!" called Josh triumphantly, pulling up and away from the stalled convoy and ascending back to the high altitude of his wingmen. The squirrel let out a sigh of momentary relief - he'd expected things to be worse, for more gunfire to rise, or for heat-seeking missiles to home in relentlessly on his ass as he and Baxter had dived in to attack, or for fighters to leap out of nowhere to atomise them all - but no such thing had happened. Now, the remaining pair of Strike Eagles screamed into the fray. He remained high and provided top cover, switching over to the air-to-air weapons mounted on his plane, with Baxter scanning the sky for any threat that might emerge. The forces hit on the ground could have got a message out as they were attacked. Although, as Sean and Taias' planes rolled into the attack, it didn't seem likely that there'd be anything left to defend once they'd finished. The drab green cylinders of cluster bomb units drifted from the bottom of their jets, splitting open as they reached a preset height. At that height, ten sub-munitions ejected, and scanned the area they'd been released in with infra-red and laser sensors, locking on almost instantly to the shapes of the trucks, anti-aircraft vehicles, armoured personnel carriers, and the Shahab launch vehicles. The sub-munitions then fired four hockey puck shaped 'skeets', each of which detonated, forming a jet of molten-hot copper, punching through the armour and skins of the vehicles, solidifying enough as they did to ricochet and fragment further inside the vehicles, shredding sensitive electronics and mechanical components, and setting off dozens of secondary explosions as ammunition and fuel blasted into fragments. The process was devastating, as the four CBU-97 cluster bombs released by the two aircraft each fired ten sub-munitions, each with four skeets. With over one hundred and sixty penetrators deployed, the convoy didn't stand a chance, and was shredded in seconds. Any skeets that didn't find a target blew themselves to pieces fifty feet above the ground, in order to prevent any unexploded munitions causing a problem for people on the ground later on. Josh felt a slight shiver run up through his body, coursing up through his bushy tail and shifting him in his seat. It was terrifying, almost, to witness how quickly and simply the trio of warplanes had obliterated the small convoy of vehicles. The Shahab surface-to-surface missiles had each been capable of causing destruction on a much greater level, at remote distances. But their power had been neutered by the tiny skeets, and the three planes that launched them. It was an uneven battle, made possible by the technology they wielded. All the same - it was also sobering to think of the men in the vehicles below. They'd had only the shortest moments to realise they were under attack, before the Paveways and CBU's had dropped out of the sky. The Strike Eagles hadn't been targeting the troops at all - but it was impossible for them not to have suffered. But that's what war was like for the soldiers on both sides. You signed up, and you trained for war - because one day, it might come, and you might not make it out alive. He felt sorry for them, and for any family they might have. But the Iranian, or Chinese, pilots had done the same to the US and allied ground forces in the conflict so far. Josh shook off the feeling as Sean and Taia's jets rose to meet them. He looked over to the cockpit of Sean's fighter alongside, and gave a short wave. The vulpine nodded and gave the same in reply, looking over a moment later and raising his visor. Josh listened in as the voice of Max 'Ice' Winter, Taia's WSO came over the radio. "Ice here, no signs of movement and all Shahab launchers are hit and burning. The rockets are totally out of commission"- the Wolverine paused as the burning scene below was hit by another huge explosion, as one of the Shahab missions was consumed in a secondary explosion, its' fuel cooking off - "holy shit! Uh, I mean, out of commission, and down for the count". Josh grinned, and heard a chuckle from Railroad in the back at Max's slip of protocol. Swearing over an open channel wasn't forbidden, but frowned upon, at least. "Roger, Ice," replied Sean, a note of humour in his voice at the slip. "Mission accomplished - let's head back for a tanker, and then back to Bagram, and for the bar, over. Master, the first round's on you for the job well done". "Roger that, Blade," added Railroad from the back seat of Josh's plane. The squirrel chuckled at his co-pilot's enthusiasm. "'bout time Master bought a round in, he always weasels his way out of it". A round of soft laughter filled the channel as they climbed higher. Josh gave a wry smile and shook his head at the comment, but felt a sense of accomplishment at the mission. He'd succeeded at the mission, and they'd all come home in one piece with no damage to themselves, or their aircraft. A total success! The thought stayed with him as the trio angled away from the area of operations. They wouldn't be clear of danger for quite a while - especially not while over the airspace above Tajikistan, within range of hostile aircraft - but they could relax a little. After all, somewhere out there were friendly F-22 Raptors, Eurofighter Typhoons, and other aircraft hunting down enemy jets that could ruin a strike mission like their attack on the ballistic missile convoy. Even more vulnerable than them though were the big 'mud-movers' like the B-1B Lancers, B-2 Spirits and the B-52 Stratofortresses. The 'Heavies' had no air-to-air weapons, and relied on the airspace being clear of threats to deliver their staggering payloads of bombs and missiles.

As they flew onward, the quiet returned except for occasional routine chatter, and a little small talk as Tajikistan passed under their wings. They were headed for the distant coastline, now held by allied and friendly forces for the most part, aside from the occasional flare up of insurgent action. The six of them were beginning to relax as they passed away from the enemy lines, and over their own. Below, snaking columns of vehicles could be seen making their way across the desert, heading to reinforce and resupply the units already deployed. The three planes weren't too far from the tanker. Sean toggled the radio channel for the E-3 Sentry AWACS plane, ready to get the vector from the flight controller to the waiting KC-135 air-refuelling plane. "Highball, this is Striker One requesting vector to a tanker, and our exit from the combat area, over". He paused and waited for the operator aboard the Sentry radar warning and control aircraft to reply. Silence was the only reply, and the hiss of the open channel. The fox frowned, and was about to ask again, when the channel came to life. This time, Highballs' voice was urgent and rapid-paced. "Striker Flight, we have a priority tasking. Say your fuel and weapons state, over?" Sean paused and his eyes widened a moment, before he spoke up. "Uh, wait one Highball. We'll take a check, over. Sing out, Strikers". A quick round check of the trio of planes showed Josh still carrying all his cluster bombs, and Taia and he with full loads of Paveways, and half their load of CBU's. All of them had a full load of air-to-air weapons and cannon ammunition to boot. Their fuel situation wasn't as good though - they couldn't stay in the air for too much longer, before things became desperate, or they'd have to divert to one of the small forward expeditionary bases in the local area, instead of the big base of Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan. "Roger that, Striker Flight, now listen up. We have a special urgent tasking for your group. An RAAF RF-111 on a recon flight has located a convoy of vehicles believed to be carrying high-value VIPs. They're unarmed and cannot intercept. You're loaded up, and the closest available un-tasked asset we have to carry out a strike." The AWACS operator sent across the data for the strike area, using the LINK-16 data transfer system. In the F-15E's rear seat, Jon rapidly reviewed the data, matching estimates for range based on their fuel, flight speed, altitude, and other factors. He crunched the numbers down, and clicked his mike to Sean to pass the info across. Reviewing the info, he frowned in concern. With the fuel they had remaining, they'd be cutting it very, very close. Not to mention, should there be any unexpected defences or attackers, they could face problems with their weapon loads as well. Absently, he rubbed at the pendant through his clothing again, and nodded to himself. Someone else needed their help, and the mission was important. They had to try, at least. "Roger, Highball", replied Sean with a firm tone to his voice. "We've run the numbers, and we can hit the target. But we'll need a tank right after, since we'll be running on vapour and wishes. Got any data for us?" "I'll get you linked with the RF-111 crew, Striker Flight. Follow my vectors to the target IP, and commence the engagement, ASAP, Highball out" Sean banked the Strike Eagle into a turn, his muzzle tight beneath the oxygen mask once more. This time, the worry was more pronounced - a sudden change of mission like this was unusual, if not unheard of. The longer they flew, the more tired the crews became. The more tired they were, the more the chance for errors grew. And flying high performance machines like the F-15E, and carrying out the missions they flew, errors could often be drastic, and lethal. "Blade, Mainline," said Taias' voice over the radio. "Go ahead, Mainline," he replied, glancing across at Taia's jet. He couldn't see her face properly, but he could see her helmeted head turn to face him across the distance. "That Aussie RF-111," She said with a note of concern. "If they hang around too long, they might be in danger. The Aardvarks' a mean S.O.B for bombing the hell out of ground targets, and she makes a damn fine recon bird too. My Dad flew 'em in 'Nam and he used to tell me about 'em. But against MiGs, or those Iranian Tomcats, well. That's a different story. Us on the other hand-" "I know what you're saying, Mainline", he replied, sharing her concern. "They're sticking their necks out staying out there and tracking that convoy. And we owe it to their guts to get there ASAP and cover their asses, and waste that convoy". "Sounds good, Major," added Josh. "Lead the way and we'll do the rest". "Blade," replied Sean as confirmation. There wasn't much else to say.

Tajikistan passed under the wings of the F-15s as they closed distance with the target area. This time there was no chit-chat. The state of their fuel was a growing concern, along with whatever they might find when they arrived. They were going into a new target area, with new threats, outside what they'd been briefed. It wouldn't be the comparatively easy ride they'd had before. Anything could be waiting for them. Sean let a small sigh of relief escape his muzzle as a track representing the RF-111 appeared on the radar. Whoever the pilot was, they were doing a good job of pacing the convoy, and keeping themselves out of trouble. Once the Australian Air Force jet appeared, the vehicles showed up soon after. Moments later, the deep grey painted swing-wing jet appeared to the naked eye, pacing a course a few thousand feet above the rugged ground below. Sean twitched in alarm, and glanced down, placing his hand over the pendant again. It must've been a coincidence, perhaps a vibration through the aircraft, or static between his fur and the flight suit. But he thought, for a moment, that the pendant had vibrated. It was a disk of metal, with no internal or external parts or workings. It had no way to move, vibrate of do anything of that kind. He shook the thought away, as it wasn't important right now. He shifted his mask on his muzzle, and looked towards the RF-111 as he guided the Strike Eagle into formation with the swing-wing jet. "Striker flight, this is Dart," said a female voice on the radio as it burst to life. "We have sight of the convoy, moving south-south-west on a dirt road, from the foot of a range of hills. We count six vehicles, various types with no armour, just a couple of technicals, SUVs and a couple of trucks. I'm sending you the target image now, over". Sean found the sound of the pilots' voice over the radio pleasant to his ears. It had a firm undertone, with a musical, upbeat tone, despite the stress of the situation. He couldn't picture the woman it belonged to - but whoever she was, he was already impressed, and interested. "We got 'em," said Jon from the back seat, excitement creeping into his voice. "Targets locked-" "Break, break, break!" came Highballs urgent voice over the radio. "Bandits, inbound, contact... wait, contact lost!" "I gotta visual!" came Baxters' excited voice a moment later. "Seven o'clock, low at high speed! It's a fighter, coming in-" "Break, dammit!" yelled Sean over the radio as the buzzer in his ears sounded a hostile lock-on. The formation of F-15's split onto wildly varying courses, the RF-111 following suit, star-bright rooster tails of flares thumping into the sky in their wake. The sleek, dark, enemy aircraft thundered through the airspace a moment later, pulling up into a hard bank itself, and rolling back around, thin vapour contrails streaming from its' wingtips as it pulled into a hard turn, screaming around as it hunted for the Strikers and their ally. "What the hell?" shouted an Australian voice he didn't recognise - common sense dictated it must be the RF-111's Navigator. "Where the hell did he come from?" "Highball, this is Blade, we have enemy aircraft engaging, over!" Sean rolled the Strike Eagle through a series of violent evasive manoeuvres, trying to avoid the enemy aircraft getting behind the plane for the fatal lock-on or gun pass. He craned his neck from side to side, searching for the hostile plane, and for his wingmen. The big swing-wing, pointy-nosed RF-111 was visible right away, thundering a long at low level and using the terrain for masking. A few moments later he caught sight of Taia's plane, paralleling his own, and rising into a position to guard his ass, which just left- "Blade! I'm in trouble, this guy's on my butt like glue!" "Master, go evasive! We'll get on his six!" Sean pulled his fighter around in a tight banking turn, the left wing dipping as he wheeled the jet tightly to close in behind the enemy aircraft. Weight pushed on his chest at the rapid manoeuvre threw G-Forces against him. Sunlight glittered and shimmered, dancing spots across his eyes, and flashes through his vision. Ahead, the shape of Josh and Baxters' plane gleamed in the sunlight, and the aircraft closing behind shimmered in the sun. The fox felt his eyes drawn towards the hostile plane as he closed, following it with his eyes and the helmet-mounted sighting system in his visor. Warbling tones in his ears sounded as he tried to snag the jet with a lock-on from the AIM-9X Sidewinders under the Strike Eagles wings. The aircrafts' shape grew familiar as he closed, and he felt a wash of sickly surprise roll over him. The twin, forked tails, a narrow, slender cross-section, and trapezoid-shaped wings, all stretched behind a gold-tinged bubble canopy and a pointed nose... "Major, that plane," said Jon in surprise, glancing up from his instruments in the rear cockpit. "I'm not seeing things, right? That's an F-22 - a Raptor! - But the IFF isn't registering it as a friendly!" "It's a Raptor all right," he replied, his head a whirl of confusion. "It couldn't be anything else. So why is it engaging us? He must be able to tell by now who we are. What the hell is going on here?" He tried Highball again - but this time, there was nothing but static and the harsh pops and squeaks of electronic interference - they were being jammed. Only the short-range communications were unaffected. They were on their own. Sean could hear his own breath through the radio, harsh in and out, ragged with the stress of keeping on the Raptors tail. It gleamed in the sunlight ahead, the smooth skin of the stealthy aircraft almost oily-looking in the light. Voices swum to his ears, muted and discordant, speaking words he didn't hear, as he focused on the shape of the jet ahead. The pendant on his chest was like a stinging ember, hot on his chest. As he watched the black jet closed in, he could see in minute detail, almost slow-motion, the side missile bays of the fighter swinging open. "-lade, you have to take him out, now! Master and Railroad are gonna buy it if you don't!" A jolt of alarm rose through him, as he realised what Jon was saying - screaming almost - over the radio. Shaking himself out of the moment with an alarmed breath, he jockeyed the Strike Eagle into a closer position, standing on the rudder pedals and hauling full back and right on the stick. The fox strained and grunted with the effort of bringing the heavy aircraft around to match the super-agile F-22. The effort wasn't in vain, as a steady buzzing tone sounded in his ears, and he sung out triumphantly: "Striker One, Fox Two!" The AIM-9X heat-seeking missile leapt from the rail under the wing, scything toward the F-22 on a trail of white smoke. The F-22 rolled and dropped away, ejecting flares as it did. Josh immediately rolled hard away from the Raptor, dropping in altitude and running from the jet. The flares dropped by the Raptor did the job they were designed for, decoying the AIM-9X, which consumed itself in a ball of fire. The pilot kept steady in the dive, and levelled out moments later, before screaming skyward again. But this time there was no break. The Strikers and their new friend weren't going to be caught sleeping. "Strikers, form up and let's box in that sonofabitch. Dart, are you armed?" There was a pause, before the pleasant voice came back on the air. "Roger," she replied. "I've got two sidewinders ready and waiting for that bastard. What's your plan, Striker One?" "Simple - we'll drive him to you, and you take a shot at him. He won't expect it. We've got the power and agility to push him around a little, and we outnumber him!" "Roger, I'll follow your lead!" Sean changed channel. Taia was already guarding his back, as the F-22 rolled around for another run in on them, this time at long range. Immediately, the trio of Strike Eagles broke wide, ejecting bundles of radar-deflecting Chaff, before forming into a three-abreast line, their radar searching for the elusive Raptor. Taia drove ahead, diving in to engage the F-22, coming in from a high angle. Josh matched Sean's turn as the pair thundered in on the evading Raptors' tail, as he ejected a bundle of chaff to decoy the lock-on. Josh pulled ahead, his radar locked on. "Striker two, fox-" Josh and Baxter's plane exploded into a searing cloud of fire and smoke, close enough for Sean's F-15E to be shaken by the shock. Wreckage tumbled earthward, oily black smoke and orange flame streaming through the air. "What..." he said, the sound dying on his lips as he searched frantically for any sign of a parachute. "Did they get out? Did they eject?" sounding Taia, her voice urgent and pained. "No... No chutes," said the voice of Dart, mangled and tight-sounding over the radio. "I don't see any chutes, over". "Evade! There's another hostile!" yelled Jon, interrupting the moment of shock. Sean immediately rolled the Strike Eagle once more, diving through a spiral toward the ground, extending to get away from the newcomer to the battle. Immediately, Jon began switching through the sensors at his disposal, scanning the skies for the pair of hostile planes, and their allies. "Shit!" growled Sean, his eyes scanning the sky rapidly - and looking everywhere except at the expanding ball of smoke in the sky. "What the fuck is going on here? Who are these assholes?" "They've got no markings," replied Taia's voice a moment later, breathless and strained, as she took continued her evasive manoeuvres. "No USAF markings, no unit markings; nothing. Not even warning stencils, that I can see. And they ain't in normal colours, either. Black ain't a standard colour for Raptors!" "They're hunting us down," said Dart, anger in her voice now. "And we have to turn it back on them, so we can let someone know!" "Blade," he said in agreement. "Let's get 'em. All aircraft, engage, and remember your manoeuvres". Taia formed up with him, rising to a higher vertical altitude. Behind and below him, Darts' RF-111 took up a trailing, low-level position. All the pilots and WSO's had had enough of being hunted - it was time to hunt. The Raptors had their game planned as much as the Strikers and Dart, though. Both stealthy planes thundered out of the sun, diving in a split toward both Taia's aircraft, and the pair of aircraft at lower level. Immediately, Sean rolled parallel to the diving aircrafts' line of flight, forcing the F-22 to level out and bleed off all his built up speed, and roll into a turn. A turn that Dart had already anticipated. The RF-111 had accelerated as the Strike Eagle began its turn, closing the range between the swing-wing fighter-bomber and the diving air-superiority fighter. Inevitably, inexorably, a line of white smoke tipped with a Sidewinder drew a line between the two planes, and this time, connected. The raptor shattered into a blossom of fire, the rear of the jet disintegrating, and the forward half tumbling through the air, flipping end over end, before it ploughed into the mountainous landscape and disintegrated.

Overhead, Taia had immediately commenced a similar manoeuvre, breaking with the closing aircraft as it dove in on her. The F-22 pilot was wise to the manoeuvre, however, and immediately dove into a yo-yo turn, rising back into position on the Strike Eagles' tail. The buzzing sound of a lock-on warning filled her ears, and the cougar rolled the jet hard right, losing altitude in a spiral, switching directions as she pumped out flares and chaff. The Raptor followed down, its vectored thrust engines controlling its' dive onto her tail - but as it levelled out, Sean's fighter closed in, crossing under Taia's path, and bringing the Raptor right into his sights. "Guns!" he called out, as he squeezed the trigger on the front of the F-15E's joystick. The M61 Vulcan cannon mounted in the root of the right wing opened fire with a roar, showering the sleek shape of the F-22 with dozens of rounds in the short burst. Almost immediately the plane rolled out to disengage, screaming skyward and trailing smoke. "Thanks, Blade," said Taia almost panting with exertion, as she levelled the Strike Eagle back out and slid into formation alongside Sean's plane. "I thought he had me for sure. Well set up and knocked down". "Blade," he answered. "Dart, you still got eyes on that convoy? We better take care of 'em before we run out of fuel and have to walk home. All this dog fighting has done a number on my tanks". "Roger," replied the Australian. "Wait one". "Blade, this is Devil, Dart's WSO. I have fix on the convoy, about six miles to our north, still moving on that dirt track. Looks like they're headed for a small town to the north east of here might be an airstrip there, if I remember our intel". Sean spared a look for the smouldering debris that had fallen to the ground, before trying the radio again. This time, he managed a connection with Highball. In fact, the AWACS operator was on the line first. "Striker Flight? Blade, respond! Are you engaged in combat? What is your situation? Respond!" "Highball, Blade," he replied, feeling the sadness in his own voice as he spoke. "We were engaged by what appeared to be two F-22 Raptors. Say again, zero-two foxtrot-two-two Raptor aircraft engaged us, and have shot down Striker Three". There was a long pause, and then Highball responded. "Roger, Striker One. The nearest Raptor unit is over a hundred miles from your position. Can you confirm that they were definitely Raptor-" "God-dammit yes!" he exploded in reply. "There were two of those fuckers, and they killed my wingman and his WSO! They tried to shoot all of us down, and they didn't have any markings, is that clear enough for you?" "Confirmed, Striker One," replied the AWAC operator, maintaining an even, if slightly deflated tone. "We'll get a CSAR team out there ASAP. What's the status of the enemy aircraft?" "One is down - notch that up for Dart and Devil. The other is damaged, and has retreated, but is still in the area. We're going after the convoy now, over". "Roger, Striker one. Exit the area ASAP after the engagement, I'm vectoring aircraft to support you immediately, they'll be with you in ten minutes". "Blade," he confirmed with a mixed feeling. The bastard Raptor was still out there, somewhere. And it'd be ten minutes until they'd have help. He growled softly at the irritation of the situation - there was no escaping that the stealthy Raptor could come back at any moment, and ruin their day. Like it had already ruined Josh and Baxter's, permanently, he thought. He shook his head sadly, and gave a ragged sigh, clenching his fists around the control stick and throttle. Josh and Baxter had been so new to the squadron, and full of such potential. To have lost them, when they had only just begun to be part of the group, and to become real friends was a sobering, saddening event. More so, as they had just completed the previous mission successfully, and had been planning on the celebrations only a short while ago. He glowered behind his visor, keen eyes searching the sky. If the Raptor showed its face again, he'd finish the job he started - but punishment enough, for now, would be to destroy the convoy they'd shown up to protect. "Mainline, Dart - let's waste those Tonka toys. Dart, watch our backs. Mainline, with me. Let's get some payback". The two Strike Eagles formed up, and thundered in on the convoy. This time, there was no attempt to slow down the convoy, or box it in. This was a single-pass job. Jon and Max aimed and locked the Paveways, dropping them at a few miles out and letting them glide in. The bombs detonated, flipping over the rolling pickup trucks and gutting an APC. Moments later, the Strike Eagles dropped their remaining cluster bombs, the sensor-fused weapons blasting the rest of the convoy into scrap in seconds. The twin planes roared over at low level, before rising higher, and rejoining with the RF-111, heading into a turn to take them back out of the combat area, and to safety. "Highball, this is Blade. We hit the convoy, and it's junk. We're heading out of the area, and we need a tanker". "Roger, Striker One. I'm diverting a KC-10 inland to meet you. You can tank up and RTB from there. Good job on the strike, and I'm sorry about Striker Three. We're trying to get some data on the Raptors now and"-the operator paused, and Sean frowned as he waited. "Striker one! There's an incoming trace, looks like the Raptor! Evade, evade!" Sean cursed as the radar warning tone buzzed, in his ears once more. Jon punched out bundles of chaff, and cranked up the ECM as high as he dared. Sean hauled the plane through manoeuvres as the warnings nagged in his ears. "AMRAAM!" called out Jon. "On our six, getting close, keep turning. We-" Jon's voice cut off as the aircraft shook violently, rumbling and screeching. The controls went mushy in Sean's hands, and he had to wrestle with the Strike Eagle to bring it around. Warnings mounted in his ears, informing him of lost oil pressure, fires, and an engine flameout. "Birdie, what's our status. Birdie! Jon!" He felt a rising in his gut, and craned his neck to look over his shoulder. The feeling was justified - blackened metal, shattered Plexiglas, and smoke filled the rear of the cockpit. Wind whistled over his flight suit. The outside world was a tumbling, streaming mass of colours and detail, blurred and indistinct. His body felt heavy as lead, and to turn his head was a massive effort, and strained his neck muscles to the limit. Whatever the missile had done, it had injured - if not, god forbid, killed - Jon in doing it, and shredded systems all over the aircraft. His bird was going down. "Striker Two, I'm hit," he called over the radio, his voice strained and breathless as he fought the plane, stamping on the rudder and hauling the stick to level out the spin. He gritted his teeth, hoping the radio was still working well enough for someone to get the message. "Portside engine's out, I've got fires in the aircraft. My WSO is... injured, situation unknown. I have minimal control of my aircraft at best. I'm going to try and get her out of the area-" "Roger," came the tight-voiced, growling reply from Taia.. "I'll keep you covered from that bastard-" "Will you now?" interrupted a smooth voice over the channel. It was like dark chocolate poured on silk, with a barely-there mid-Atlantic accent underwriting the smooth timbre. "But who will watch you?" "Who the hell is this? What are you doing on our channel?" raged Highball. "Identify yourself at once!" "Congratulations, RF-111," continued the voice, not paying any mind to the AWACS controller. "I'm impressed you managed to shoot down my wingman. And to you too 'Blade', for hitting me in your Strike Eagle too, and with guns at that. Not many people could have achieved that". "Who are you?" demanded Taia, her jet pulling into formation above and behind Sean's stricken plane, the RF-111 on the other wing. "What do you want?" "It doesn't matter - but I'm afraid you've seen too much". Sean's warning receiver sounded again - but before he could react, the RF-111 and Taia's F-15E pulled ahead, pumping out glittering clouds of chaff, and blinding hot flares. The lock-on warning went dead, and Sean struggled to gain altitude in the stricken fighter, 'bitching betty', the jets' automated warning still patiently informing him of the faults with the aircraft, which was growing ever more sluggish. A look out of the canopy showed the terrain below levelling out, with more roads criss-crossing the area, along with fields and clumps of trees breaking up the pervasive brown of the landscape. A river wound through a short distance away as well. A gleam of light caught his eye, as the F-22 shot up from below, no longer trailing smoke. Taia's jet immediately turned and attempted to haul around for an intercept, the RF-111 likewise breaking into a screaming roll, wings sweeping fully back as Dart traded height for speed and energy, aiming to climb back up and intercept the Raptor. But it was too late. Sean made to haul on the mushy controls, but the Strike Eagle had nothing left to give. He was transfixed as a winking light on the right upper side of the plane grew brighter, before smashing, crushing pain shook every bone in his body, and submerged him into a world of echoed, muffled sound, like hearing through water. Stars and blackness fought in front of his eyes, and a smashing wind dashed against his entire body, howling through the haze of pain. Around him, the sky slid away, the ground filling more of the horizon. Remotely, something in his brain reminded him he was supposed to get out of the plane, before it hit the ground. He struggled to form words, his muzzle not replying as he tried to form words, the movements of his lips and tongue falling over each other. He stopped, frowning as he tried to summon the concentration needed. The mass of pain from the left side of his face made it hard to talk. He realised he was in shock, analysing everything with casual detachment. Including being in shock, it seemed. "Striker one," he managed to grind out into mask. "I'm hit, ejecting". He let go of the now completely floppy stick, and the throttle, and wrapped both hands around the yellow-and-black striped handles at either side of his seat. Taking a breath, and forcing himself to sit straight in the seat, with his knees together, he yanked both handles upward. Immediately, there was a loud 'bang' as pyrotechnic charges blew the shattered canopy clear of the Strike Eagle, which was instantly torn away in the airflow. Under a heartbeat later, rocket engines mounted on the seat fired, blasting him upward and out of the plane - with Jon's seat following. The F-15E sailed away, beginning to roll on it's own with no-one at the controls. Straps pulled taut, and the parachute fired out from the top of the seat, opening moments later and separating both Sean and Jon from their seats, and dangling them in the sky from their harnesses. Sean's head lolled momentarily, his vision swimming as he drifted down through the air. He could distantly make out the shape of the F-15E sailing away, and the Raptor, chased down by the RF-111 and F-15E, before it accelerated out of a turn, descending into a diving Immelman turn, and then fleeing the area as vapour trails began to form overhead - the reinforcements. But that was of little consequence to him as he drifted down. The pain in his face was excruciating. He could feel wind whipping through his fur, and stirring the blood on his face into a gooey mess. His vision was tunnelled and hazy - and, he realised, half as good as it should be. He was amazed he was even still conscious, given the vast agony he could feel. Even moving his arms to take hold of the parachute risers took a monumental effort of strength and will, but somehow, with a near scream into his mask, he managed it. He pulled on the parachutes' risers, turning around to try and find Jon's chute, hoping to find out what state his WSO was in - and felt a sinking feeling in his gut, as he saw Jon drift motionless under his canopy. Already the wind was dragging the pair apart, and he couldn't keep steering to keep Jon's chute in range. Hauling on the parachutes' straps was aching torture on his arms, and his body felt sluggish and heavy as he drifted lower. The ground rose around him, looming closer as he fell closer to the patchwork. Rising hills blocked his line of sight, and surely, slowly, he lost sight of Jon, and of the stricken form of his former ride. Although a few moments later a rumbling explosion in the distance spelled out the fate of his bird conclusively, a pall of smoke rising into the air moments later to seal any doubts. Then there wasn't any time to think about anything else, and he hit the ground, half-remembering through a haze to bend his knees and roll. Although even that sent a wave of pain through his body that elicited a anguished gasp from his muzzle, as he folded into the dirt. Blackness closed over him, his vision tunnelling out and fading into blissful nothing.

TO BE CONTINUED

Glossary:

AIM-9X: The latest and most advanced version of the 'Sidewinder' short-range heat-seeking missile. Used for air-to-air combat by a huge variety of combat aircraft around the world. The AIM-9 is a heat-seeking missile, and needs no radar to lock-on, instead using a super-cooled lens in the nose that can detect heat signatures of other aircraft. The latest versions can be fed information from helmet-mounted targeting systems, and are able to lock onto hot parts of an aircraft in motion, such as the leading edges of wings, and the fuselage around the engine, as well as the exhausts.

AMRAAM: Advanced Medium Range Air-to-Air missile. Also known by it's designation 'AIM-120', and occasionally by the nickname 'Slammer'. A radar-guided missile, the AMRAAM uses the aircraft launching it to find and lock onto a target, and then homes in using radar signals, using its' own onboard radar to close the final distance. Highly manoeuvrable, the AMRAAM is one of the most deadly missiles in the world, and very hard to avoid.

ASAP : As Soon As Possible

AWACS: Airborne Warning And Control System. Used to describe an aircraft that uses a powerful radar to monitor friendly and hostile forces in an airspace, and then provide them with orders, advice, and information to assist in their duties. AWACS craft have powerful enough radar to monitor aerial, land, and sea-surface targets, making them very valuable, and very tempting targets for enemy forces. Most AWAC aircraft are converted airliners or transport planes.

B-1B Lancer: A swing-winged high-speed heavy bombing aircraft. Renowned by its' crews for handling like a fighter, yet being the size of a bomber, and carrying the payload of one. Able to deliver a huge payload of air-to-ground weapons, the B-1B is one of the fastest heavy bombers in the world, and is used exclusively by the USAF

B-2 Spirit: The 'Stealth Bomber', this heavy bombing aircraft is shaped as a 'flying wing', and is highly distinctive. Only the USA uses them, and there are very few of them in existence. They are extremely hard to detect on radar, and can carry a huge payload of air-to-ground bombs and missiles over extremely long distances. It's long thin body, and very long wings with engine 'pods' beneath make it look somewhat like a badly-proportioned airliner.

B-52 Stratofortress: Also known as the 'Big Ugly Fat Fucker', or the BUFF, the B-52 is a heavy bomber designed in the early 1950's, and kept in service through upgrades into the modern day, simply due to its massive payload of bombs, and extremely long range.

Chaff: A countermeasure used to create false signals on radar to decoy pursuing missiles or aircraft. Bundles of radar-reflective strips are ejected from an aircraft, creating an image many times the size of the aircraft on radar.

CSAR: Combat Search And Rescue. The recovery of friendly personnel inside enemy territory, often under fire; often performed by specially trained combat personnel in heavily armed aircraft with a lot of support.

ECM: Electronic Countermeasures. Electronics transmitters and sensors that are used to jam and disrupt hostile communication and sensor signals, creating confusion and hindering the effectiveness of enemy operations, as well as deflecting radar-seeking munitions.

F-15E: A multi-role aircraft, developed from the F-15 air-superiority fighter. The F-15E Strike Eagle, or 'Mudhen', is a high-speed attack and air-superiority aircraft, able to employ a wide variety of weapons against air and ground targets, up to the most modern weapons available in the US and Western arsenals. The F-15E has been kept on the forefront of combat by a series of upgrades to its' systems, allowing it to remain potent and capable.

F-16: A light-weight, single-engined aircraft, able to perform multiple roles, such as air-to-air combat, ground-attack, and reconnaissance. Available in many variations and models, the F-16 is used by many nations across the world, and has been upgraded with all manner of equipment to perform many roles, and to keep it a potent aircraft. The F-16 can carry all manner of weapon systems and equipment, and is very manoeuvrable. The F-16 has a distinctive appearance, with a single air intake mounted on the bottom of the body, small triangular wings at the centre of the body, and a single large fin.

F-22: Known as the 'Raptor', the F-22 is the newest aircraft in the US arsenal, and employs a variety of cutting-edge technologies to make it a deadly aircraft. Including advanced radar, data-link, and other systems, the Raptor is able to take full advantage of shared information on a battlefield to dominate its' enemies. It also features a variety of stealthy characteristics to allow it to take on other aircraft and even ground targets with a degree of impunity.

Flanker: An aircraft manufactured in Russia. Originally used to describe the SU-27, it has since been applied to later aircraft developed from the -27, including the SU-35 and SU-37. The 'Flanker' designation comes from the NATO process of giving a codename beginning with an 'F' to any former Soviet fighter aircraft, and has since been unofficially adopted by other countries and organizations across the world.

Flare: A decoy used to try and evade heat seeking missiles. The escaping aircraft ejects these brightly burning decoys into the path of an oncoming heat-seeking missile in an attempt to entice the missile onto the much hotter target, usually trying to turn the hotter part of their aircraft away from the missile in the process.

Fox-number: Used to inform an AWACS or other friendly aircraft of a missile launch. 'Fox One' indicates a heat-seeking missile launch. 'Fox Two' indicates a radar-guided missile launch. Sometimes, 'Fox Three' is used for guns, but has fallen out of favour for the call 'Guns' instead.

KC-10 Extender : An in-flight refuelling aircraft, capable of refuelling friendly aircraft using both a static 'boom' and also a flexible basket-like 'drogue', which means it can refuel multiple types of aircraft with both a 'socket' or a 'probe' to accept refuelling. The KC-10 is converted from the DC-10 passenger aircraft. It can also carry a small amount of cargo.

KC-135 Stratotanker: Another in-flight refuelling aircraft, the KC-135 refuelling plane uses only a static 'boom' to refuel aircraft, making it somewhat less versatile than the KC-10, but no less in demand. Like the KC-10, it can also carry cargo, and is converted from an airliner.

M61 Vulcan: A multi-barrelled, rapid-fire cannon. Firing 20mm high-explosive and tracer shells at around 6000 rounds per minute, the cannon is installed in a wide variety of aircraft around the world. The high rate of fire makes it desirable for both air-to-air and air-to-ground combat, as it can put out a heavy weight of fast-moving firepower in the very short windows of time common to air combat, causing critical damage in very short time.

MiG: Mikoyan-Gurevich, a manufacturer and designer of Russian aircraft. Also used colloquially to refer to the family of aircraft made by that company, and used by a variety of countries around the world.

MRBM: Medium-Range Ballistic Missile, a ground-to-ground missile, with a range of several hundred miles, often carrying multiple warheads of either conventional explosive, or chemical and nuclear warheads. The Scud is a type of MRBM, as is the Shahab.

Paveway: A family of laser-guided bombs, able to be attack and destroy targets with great precision by following a laser beam to their target. Several sizes of bomb exist, used to various roles.

RAAF: Royal Australian Air Force

RTB: Return to Base

RF-111: The Reconnaissance variant of the F-111 tactical bomber aircraft. Equipped with Sidewinder missiles for self-defence, and able to carry a variety of reconnaissance systems, and ground-attack weapons; the RF-111 was originally developed by the US Air Force, and is now retired, but is still used by the RAAF in several modernised versions.

SAM: Surface to Air Missile. Abbreviation used to cover a variety of Anti-aircraft missile systems

WSO: Weapon Systems Officer. The person aboard an aircraft who is responsible for operation of weapon systems, reconnaissance systems, and other aircraft systems, taking some of the pressure off of the pilot while on a mission. Sometimes known as the 'Wizzo' as a nickname.