FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

Wylde Fyre

By Stephen Doyle

Barry Roberts and all associated characters belong to Direwolf505, and are used with his permission. Please check out his work on FurAffinity!

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Chapter Fourteen September 1st 2017 Alyeta Island [250 miles west of Easter Island] 06:45am

Sean and the others maintained their patrol above the island circling patiently. Their weapons were mostly expended. The resistance on the island had either been eliminated, or had given up their fight. Considering how few defenders there were, they'd most likely wiped most of them out, with no losses and little damage. Sean's plane showed some carbon scoring and a chunk chewed out of one canard, as well as some minor damage from small arms ground fire, along with the same on the F-111, which had caught some shrapnel in the SAM site attack. The airbus A400M had also been hit, but had suffered only minor damage. For now, there was little to do but remain on station. The S-3 had even moved in closer, with the threat now reduced. As they circled, they waited for word from Barry and his team on the ground below, searching the dig site and its' offices for any information on what had been recovered.

In the cockpit of the Taia's F-15X, Max was deep in concentration. The wolverine was leant forward over the rear cockpit SMFD, and flipping between display windows, reviewing the radar imagery from the fighters' own AESA radar, and that from the S-3's Erieye through the data-link. In between, he flicked through the video taken by the F-15's onboard cameras. All the evidence he came across lead to one thing; that was that there was an HQ for the enemy fighters and they hadn't found it yet. "Blizzard to all units - I think I might've stumbled onto something, over" "What're you talking about, Blizzard?" replied Sean's voice. The wolverine glanced over at the single-seater F-15X alongside their own, and at the shape of Seans' head inside. The battle over, the fox had lifted his visor, and let his mask drop for the moment, much as Max had. "I've been reviewing the information from the attack and the subsequent battle, and while I don't have the comms info to back it up, I think there's an enemy HQ we haven't located yet. The trap with the BRAMS would have to be sprung remotely, and someone needed to co-ordinate those troop movements too. Barry didn't note a fortified building anywhere, and there simply aren't enough structures on the island for it to be one we would've all missed. There's also nothing down there with a rigid construction, and any kind of dish antennae or own power. You can see that through using the IR cameras-" "So what you're saying, then," interjected Red, "Is that this HQ, wherever it is ain't on the island?" "Right, that's exactly what I'm saying. But it can't be too far away, either, because they'd wanna react quickly to the situation. I don't reckon it'd be, like, halfway around the world or anything. Er, over". There was quiet on the line for a moment, before Sean spoke up again, his tone firm this time. "All right - Van Man, widen your scan area, and set the Erieye to sea-search mode. Heck, bring the S-3 over the island, and use it as a focal point for the search. Streak-," -he used Charlotte's callsign for the first time - "focus on the comms traffic and see if you can find any kind of pattern that might give us a clue where they've got their HQ. Once you pinpoint it, we'll move in to attack. Guns, Saffy - we might need a refuel, so don't stray too far, over" "Roger," replied the gruff voice of the tiger. "We'll stick close". "Good job, Ice," said Sean, over the network. "Stay on it". "Roger," replied Max, with a small sense of satisfaction - for once, his attention to detail and perfection had been a big benefit.

Meanwhile, things on the ground were less conclusive. Barry and his group had made their way into the cavern where the dig had taken place, and so far had found nothing out of order. Through the greenish tinged night-vision view, they followed the scuffed path. Already, they'd noticed the carved marks in its' surface, and paved slabs beneath their booted feet. The walls were age-worn and covered in the deposits of ages from dripping ceilings. Other than the group, the only things in the tunnel were the stacks of excavation supplies along the walls. Clusters of PVC piping, stacked, empty wooden pallets and other miscellanea dotted the walls. Electrical cables with suspended bare-bulb lights were roughly stapled into the rocky ceiling at regular intervals, but none of them were lit. They were not broken, simply not lit. Finding the power might be an advantage, but it also might give them away to anyone in waiting. "Wait," hissed Sarah, and they all froze, shuffling as quiet as they could into cover behind the construction and excavation equipment. "Hostiles, moving up the main tunnel" "Shit," muttered Barry. "Take 'em out. Quietly", he said, hissing an emphasis on the 'quietly' part. At the edge of his sight, Sasha detached herself from cover, and glided like a shadow on silk toward the enemy. A blade appeared in her hand, and she froze as the men moved closer, moulding herself to the objects around her. The men stopped, squinting into the darkness, and everyone tensed, holding breath and steadying hands, before Sasha moved in a flash, a gloved hand over a muzzle, and the blade darting between ribs with a slicing, decisive strike. The man struggled and flailed as she drove the cruel-looking blade home. The second man half-turned, before Nadia slid out of cover, a silencer on the pistol in her hands, levelled at the mans' head. A simple double tap and two thump-thump_coughs of the weapon, and the man dropped like a stone, caught in her arms as he fell. "Tangos down," she whispered on their radio net. "Should we move on?" "Roger," he replied. "Sasha, take point. We need to locate any Intel, and then move on". They crept ever further down the tunnel, and the last of the dim, distant light slipped away as the tunnel rounded a corner. Sasha held up a hand, and then waved it, parallel with the ground, directing them all to stop, and take cover. A moment later, her sibilant voice hissed on the radio. "Wait. Tunnel is widen out here, a cavern. There are structures, and I smell other people patrolling here. They are waiting for us, I think." Phil spoke up to reply, having been listening intently, his large ears twitching at every bit of information. "They might have-" Whatever else Phil was about to add was cut off as their vision was flooded with light, as spotlights around the cavern snapped on, along with a cacophony of voices calling for their surrender, to lay down their arms, and similar threats; drowning out the sounds of the squad cursing and pulling their NVG's off of their faces. Ducking behind cover, Barry yelled into the radio. "Thistle, suppressive, pop smoke and frag, then get to those structures. Sasha, take out the commanders!" Thistle grunted as she laid the M240 on top of a stack of pallets and opened fire, the machinegun a head-smashing thundering in the caverns' enclosed space. Everyone else lobbed smoke grenades over arm into the cavern, the grenades hitting the ground, bouncing, and then shedding their clouds of smoke with a dull 'crump' and a hiss. The thick white smoke quickly filled the air, before the handful of baseball-shaped frag grenades thrown in with the volley detonated and turned the confused yells and orders into screams and more harshly shouted words. Springing up from his cover, with Sarah behind him and Phil in trail, Barry's boots pounded over the pebble-strewn tiled floor of the cavern, and slammed his back up against the wall of a prefab structure. Sarah tried the door, and found it locked. Too sturdy to simply kick aside, she looked to Barry. He let his rifle hang by its' strap, and instead drew the 12-gauge he carried from its' over the shoulder scabbard. Phil and Sarah lined up on one side of the door, SMG's ready and out for clearing the room beyond. Barry nodded and aimed the shotgun at the hinge-points of the door. Racking the action, he fired at the top, and then bottom hinge, and then once at the handle area. Rearing back, he booted the door heavily, and then stepped aside as it fell in. Sarah rushed the room, TMP held high, and ready. Barry kept the shotgun in hand, swinging the rifle around out of his way, and followed them in. Already he heard the report of pistol shots from further in the small building, and the answering chatter of Sarah's gun. There were a few more shouts and shots, before there were rapid shouts of 'Clear!' from along the way. Barry returned the shotgun to its holster, and began to shuffle through papers. A pair of USB flash drives went into his pockets, and a wedge of important-looking paperwork followed. In the next room, he could hear the sound of computers being ransacked, and glanced in to see Phil rapidly and carefully disassembling a PC. "Got to be careful," remarked the mouse as he worked with the tool-roll he'd pulled from a pouch on his vest. "Most computers in a place like this will have anti-tamper devices. If I balls this up, then the drive will delete all the data. Have to work fast, but delicate" "I know you can do it, man," replied Barry. "Keep at it, we'll keep you covered". "I know," replied Phil, not looking up, face etched with concentration. "You usually do". The wolf moved on, and found Sarah checking the pockets of the people she and Phil had taken down. She already recovered a key from around one of their necks, and nodded to a door at the rear of the room when Barry walked in. "Bet you anything that the other guy has another one," she said, pulling out the guys wallet, and discarding it, after not finding anything useful. Barry knelt beside the other of the pair, and as Sarah had claimed, found a key around the raccoons' neck. Similarly, he had nothing else of use or value about his person. Together, the pair fitted the keys into locks on both sides of the door, and twisted them on three. The locks released with an audible _click, and Barry drew his Para-ordnance P14, holding the 1911-like pistol in one hand, as he swung the door. Sarah had her handgun out too, as he slowly swung the heavy, yet well-balanced and oiled door open. The room inside was virtually bare. Evidently it had once been full of something, and something important at that. Wires dangled from all points, and piles of smouldering ash were scattered around the floor. Both wrinkled their noses as the acrid smell of burned plastic assaulted their sensitive canine noses. "They musta tried to burn anythin' they thought might give 'em away," remarked Barry, looking over the soot-stained room, and the piles of melted electronics and burned paper. "But we came in an' interrupted 'em halfway through". "Looks like it," agreed Sarah. "Whatever it was they were after, they must've got it and left. Like we all agreed: this was a trap to lure us in, and we'll have to scavenge whatever we can from what's left so that the others can proceed from here; maybe there's something useful, at least, in the stuff they left behind". "Hope so," replied Barry. "Let's get it all packed up, and get th' hell outta here".

Outside the offices, Thistle, Nadia and Sasha were more than holding their own. Thistle had her M240 set up with the bipod propped on top of a stack of pallets, and was keeping the attackers from gaining any ground. Sasha and Nadia were using the cover to flank around the enemy, and had begun picking them off from the sides, using aimed fire. Sasha's SVD was loud in the cavern, and each shot was perfectly aimed and executed, despite the black-furred vixen shooting with her off-hand. Nadia's fire was less precise, but no less methodical, as she held her Galil at her shoulder, popping off short, precise bursts as she moved from cover to cover. The problem was their ammunition was beginning to run low. The defenders had been more numerous and in better cover than anticipated, and what they lacked in skill, they made up for in number. The rounds for their primary weapons were almost gone, and their grenades expended. Sasha's rifle clacked dry, and the vixen swore in Russian, ducking into cover and slinging the rifle over one shoulder. With further curses spit in fluent Russian, and her elegant brows furrowed, the vixen drew her Grach pistol, checking the chamber as she did, in a fluid movement. Waiting for a pause in firing, she swung out of cover on one knee, bringing her handgun up in a firm two-handed grip, and double-tap firing. A coyote howled in pain as a round shattered the long bone in his forearm. He dropped the magazine he'd been holding for his M4 carbine, cradling his damaged limb as he painfully rolled back into cover. An answering volley of gunfire from the few remaining hostiles drove her back into cover and showered her with chips of rock and stone from the elaborately carved and age-worn walls, but halted as Nadia's gunfire pushed them back into cover. Between the two of them they had the enemy trapped, but their opponents had the superior firepower. Even Thistles' M240 couldn't help them in this situation; with the enemy elevated and in good cover; the medium machinegun couldn't effectively put fire onto the grouped enemy. Things took a turn for the worse as the steady hammering of the M240 cut out completely. The hostiles took that as a sign to double their offensive, leaping up out of cover and firing their carbines and rifles in a steady volley. Nadia fired back gamely as Sasha did the same, the women again picking at the enemies' numbers, but not knocking enough of them out of action. The catwalk shook as Thistle half-leapt, half-clambered to their side, and joined in, opening fire with her LAR Grizzly handgun. The slab-sided handgun looked like an oversized colt .45, but sounded like the roof of the ancient cavern falling in every time the badger fired. One half-inch round caught a weasel defending in the head; half of his skull disappeared in a red flower of blood and gore. The trio took up the initiative again, pressing their attack. Nadia had switched her rifle to semi-auto, telling of the amount of ammunition they had left. As a magazine dropped from the wood-furniture Galil she called out, "last mag," with a grimace on her sleek muzzle. Sasha took another shot at a defender, who toppled slowly, clutching at his chest, before she ducked into cover, letting a magazine fall from the butt of her pistol to be replaced with a fresh one in a smooth, swiping motion. Another double crack of thunder from Thistles' hand-cannon, and a series of rapid fire cracks from Nadias' rifle. Another sweep up and out of cover, forcing the weariness and the aches and pain from scrapes and knocks out of limbs, and then suddenly everything fell quiet aside from strangled gurgles of wounded men, and the creak of cooling plastic and metal. Nadia, Thistle and Sasha moved through the fallen men, kicking weapons away, or plucking them from outstretched, twitching hands. Nadia plucked a trio of M4 magazines out of a dead mans' webbing, and slid them into her own vest. As the three of them checked over the scene, the fox who had commanded them gave a rasping, bubbling breath and clutched at Thistles' boot. "Wait," he gurgled, bloody bubbled on his lips. "Please. They left us to die here, knew there wouldn't be any help," he gasped. "Supposed to be trap," he choked out. "Took the-the thing, China," he rasped, and his face darkened into an angry mask. "Fuck them, they left us all to die. Left all of us to die..." His eyes, one clouded with blood, looked to the badgers' hand, and the Grizzly.

Barry's radio crackled to life, as there was a single booming gunshot from outside. The one-eyed wolf cocked an ear, and looked to Sarah, who shrugged. "Sasha here, all hostiles are eliminated. The last survivor gave us some information; the enemy are interested in China. There is nothing else here, no other way out of cavern. How are things inside?" Barry turned around, and looked over the small area. Phil had disarmed the charges, and was now stowing them in his pack. Sarah had grabbed a number of papers and other items that looked at least remotely useful, and had stuffed them into her vest, the same as Barry had. In short - there was nothing else here to take. "We're done here. There's nothing else here that we need. Let's get out of here, and head back to the LSV, and the runway, over". Barry headed out of the prefab building, with Phil and Sarah on his heels. In the central cavern, they regrouped with the other three, moving steadily in a group at a trot toward the tunnel, and the exit. There was a slight tinge of regret; the bodies of the fallen would have to be left until a team from the Institute could come and lay the bodies of the fallen to rest, or return them to their families for a proper burial. It didn't feel great or right to leave them; but there was nothing they could do right now. The morning light came on them gradually as they made their way along the tunnels' length, along with the smell of the outside; sea, plants, earth and the harsher smells of burning buildings and flesh, of gun smoke and burnt rubber. There were no shouts of alarm, no sounds of gunfire or vehicle engines as they exited into the open air; though they still moved with care and caution. As they moved back up the track, they turned their eyes away from the ruined bodies, violently torn apart from the airstrike. They were not unused to seeing the consequences of their profession, but none of them had a taste for it - which was just as well. Psychotics did not make good soldiers, they were too unpredictable, and not given to following orders.

Once they reached the vehicle, Sarah pulled out one of the medkits, and went to work on Sasha's arm, giving it a bit more work than the simple field dressing had done earlier. She wasn't about to die, and the wound wasn't too bad; but it was a bullet wound after all. The black-furred vixen was very, very lucky. As Phil called in the pickup from the A400M, Barry surveyed the scene. They'd done their job and recovered the information required, and had probably knocked the enemy for six while they were at it. But he couldn't claim to know what these mysterious enemies had planned, or why the Avalon institute were fighting them. It wasn't that he didn't care as much as it was that it was _his_people he cared about more. Sean and his team were good people; they fought hard, and seemed like the sort to stick up for the right things, which was noble, as well as being a hard thing to do sometimes. He respected them, and he'd put his team in harms' way to help them if it came to it again... but he didn't trust the institute itself, much as Sean had said himself. Either way, a favour needed repaying but the pay check hadn't hurt either. It also didn't hurt that it seemed like the bad guys they'd faced off against in the Middle East were into some nasty shit too, and could use a kick in the balls. The grumbling drone of props broke into his line of thought, and he saw the airbus transport circling above and descending to line up on the runway. "Let's go, people!" he called out to the group, his rifle hanging loosely. All of them had effected much the same stance; weapons still within reach, but not at arms. The group swung into their seats in the LSV, Sarah taking the wheel again, much to the wolfs' consternation. The engine grumbled to life and settled in with a throaty roar, as everyone strapped in and the grey-furred she-wolf put her boot to the pedal. This time the drive was far more sedate by comparison to the pulse-pounding screaming drive through the small cluster of buildings and stands of trees that had followed their arrival. As Sarah took them around the buildings, they saw a few wounded people limping away as fast as they could, or raising their hands in surrender amongst the bullet-scarred prefab walls. The return drive also took them past the shattered hulk of one of the AA vehicles, which was nothing more than charred metal laced with the stink of burning rubber. Buildings and the temporary revetments around it were flattened or scattered like toys in a child's tantrum following the blast of the bombs hitting home. The remains of the flimsy wooden structures were scattered like kindling across the dirt of the cleared area and its' rough roads, the powerful forces of the explosions leading to all manner of bizarre occurrences. Here, he saw a boot halfway up a tree, with no sign of its owner anywhere. There, an M-16 stuck straight up out of the soft earth. Then the LSV was clear of the buildings, and Sarah pulled them gently to a stop as the A400M grumbled by, rear wheels down and nose lowering gently, before the scimitar-shaped props blurred into reverse, and bought the transporter to a halt, and half-turned it at the end of the runway, it's rear ramp lowering and lights blinking. "All aboard," murmured Sarah, and set them in motion again, rolling to meet the plane as it slowly taxied toward them, and slowed to a brief halt. The she-wolf lined up on the back of the plane, and put her foot down, giving the bit of extra juice the LSV needed to climb up the ramp and into the bay. A solid 'clunk' settled them into position, and she shut the engine off as the ramp behind them motored closed, and the engine sound wound up to a screaming roar as the pilots got them away.

"Any news on that CP, Van Man?"

"Almost got it, sir!" replied the Zebra through the radio. His accent came through thickly with the stress in his voice. Sean could imagine the wiry equine hunched over the radars' controls, working the device to narrow down the area the transmissions were coming from, until a braying cry of triumph broke into his thoughts. "Found the bastards! The transmissions are coming from a large surface target, north-northeast of you about thirty-five klicks, man" "Right!" replied Sean with a growl in his voice. "Team, weapons check. Blade has one gulf-bravo-uniform sixteen, two AIM-9X's and about twenty rounds of twenty mike-mike, over" "This is Blizzard," said Max on the line, his voice muffled by his oxygen mask. "We've got about twenty rounds of twenty mil, two AIM-9X's and two Mavericks, ah, over" "This is Devil, we've got two AIM-9X's, and several barbed insults, over" Sean gave a slight smile at that, but was quietly surprised that the F-111 had expended so much ordnance. Of course, they had been covering the ground team, and had performed a fair number of strafing runs in their support. "Roger," he replied. "Vector us in, Van Man. Dart, Devil, I want you to go in first for a fast recon flyby. Once we've verified the target, we'll prep for a strike, over" "Roger," replied Nina's voice, as the aircraft switched course to follow the incoming heading and position information from the S-3, which was moving its course slightly to keep them in cover, along with the new target. The Airbus, now back off the ramp, was in a holding position to their rear. As they switched their course and heading, Sean clicked a button on his HOTAS, and spoke to the planes' computer again. "Say fuel state," he asked the computer in a clear voice, and there was a brief pause before the pleasant female voice replied. "Fuel at thirty-three percent, twelve minutes until bingo fuel" _ _ The fox grimaced and ground his jaw. They had to get the verification of the target over and done with quickly, and deal with it too, or else they'd be limping back to Easter Island. In theory, they could land on the runway they'd just secured, but that wasn't friendly territory, and their pre-positioned supplies were at Easter Islands' runway, meaning they'd be delayed in their recovery. Not to mention security for their aircraft from the locals, and the various amenities and servicing equipment at the airport, as opposed to what seemed to be a relatively bare-bones airstrip. However, the A400M still had the fuel bladder aboard and its' refuelling pods attached, so if necessary they could refuel for the flight back. Pressing the thought to the back of his mind for now, he rode along as the fighter formation ate up the distance in short order, and he saw the glinting of a vessel below. "Dart, Devil, you're up, over," he called on the radio, and looked out of the canopy as the F-111 pulled a beautiful wing-over and dived, trailing faint streamers of vapour from its' mid-swept wings.

In the cockpit of the needle-nosed fighter-bomber, Nina buckled her mask back into place once-handed, as Red did the same. The kangaroo set their built-in recon systems to record and display whatever they saw, as Nina's skilful hands guided the large aircraft into a flyby with the - apparent - ship. As they closed on it from the rear, Nina manually set the wing-sweep on the jets' moving swing-wings to mid-sweep, giving them an excellent combination of lift and handling. Cruising at a few shades over three hundred miles an hour, and at two hundred feet off the deck, the ship soon came up. It was large - multiple decks climbed above the water, with a sweeping bridge to the rear above the open Jacuzzi on the back, and a lounge area. Two rows of windows dotted the gleaming white hull above the waterline, stretching toward the rakishly pointed bows. Numerous antennae indeed cluttered the upper workings, but there was absolutely no evidence of any weapons, and it clearly didn't belong in the ranks of any navy. "Uh, Dart to Blade - this isn't a warship," called Nina as they sailed past below the roof-line of the ship. "It's a private yacht. Repeat, vessel is _not_a military target, it's a civilian ship, over. No sign of weapons, and no insignia of any kind... national flag, looks like it's uh-" She squinted and tapped the voice-control button. "Zoom, 1.5 times." The picture sharpened and increased in size, and she recognised it as an Australian Flag. "Australian registered, over". The pass complete, Nina climbed higher, the wings swinging back further, as she rejoined the others at a higher altitude in a patrol orbit around the big ship as it steamed on below.

"Fuck," muttered Sean to himself, craning his neck for a view out of the cockpit canopy, before tapping touch-screen controls and replaying the recon flight through the data-links. No doubt about it; Nina was right: It was, plain as day, a large yacht. It even had the name emblazoned down the side of the hull in big letters, and an Australian flag fluttered from the stern. If he replayed slowly and zoomed in, he could see faces lined up at the rail, agog at the sight of the F-111 streaking past, cameras and camera phones held high and snapping away. Not one of them pointed a weapon. Most of them were young, and clad in swim or beach wear of some kind. "Fuck,"_he said again more urgently and angrily, before hitting the radio, and holding his mask up to his muzzle. "Van Man, check your info. Are the transmissions _definitely coming from this ship? Are the signals definitely leading back to this vessel, over?" There was the same pause of a few grinding moments as the Zebra rechecked. He didn't complain or brag about his skills; it was a serious request given the outcome of things so far. "Roger, Blade. There is nothing else in the area it could be; only this ship, over" The fox grimaced and shook his head. He wasn't about to prosecute an attack on a cruise ship. Even if someone on it was directing the enemy. "Streak, can you connect me to the Institute? Specifically, can you get hold of the boss?" There was a pause for a moment. Everyone had heard the report from Nina, and was uncertain how to proceed. After a moment the French-Canadian voice replied. "Oui, Blade. I have the connection for you, over". Sean opened his muzzle to speak, but before he could Marcus' voice came on the line. The old collies' tone was blunt and gruff, lacking any of the waver or whisper that had been present when they'd spoken the few times before. "This is Stewart. What's the problem, over?" "Sir, this is Blade. We may have an enemy hostile aboard a civilian vessel, partially directing or observing the action on the outpost we were deployed to take out. Request that forces be in place to apprehend the crew at the next port of call-" "Negative," replied the collie bluntly. "There's no way we can tell who it'll be. You say it's a civilian vessel, over?" "Roger," he replied. "A large private yacht, the Apex, seems to be flying an Australian flag. No signs of weapons or hostility. In fact, they seem surprised and excited to see us, over". "Sink it," replied the collie. Sean's muzzle dropped open in shock and surprise, and he shook his head. "Say again?" he asked incredulously at the order. "Confirm that you want us to sink the civilian vessel, over?" There was a tense silence on the radio, quiet enough that the only sounds were the hiss of static, and the distant whine of the engines, along with the noises of his own movement and breathing, before Marcus' voice came back, harder and firmer than before, and tinged with a threatening edge. "Blade, listen carefully: we are at war with these people. They have spent decades infiltrating into society, at all levels. They have their allies and agents; we have ours. And as one of mine, I am ordering you to sink that vessel!" The line went dead, and Sean let out a breath, looking down at the sleek ship as it cruised along. He maintained the silence for a moment, eyes still fixed on the ship as he held the circular course overhead. "Blade, what are our orders, over?" asked Taia quietly, and Sean kept his eyes on the ship, before he finally replied. "Break off, and take course to head back to base..." he opened his muzzle to say more, to rage against the order to attack. But the words would've been pointless; it was their actions that counted. Grimacing, he let his mask hang by its' straps as he pulled his gaze back to the panel in front of him, feeling a dark anger building inside him and a twisting gut-stab of doubt about the organisation he had become part of. Something jolted up through HOTAS, twisting in the back of his mind, a bright burning point of light. The pendant resting on the ruff of fur on his chest burned, almost painfully, and a tingle spread out from his temples. It was like a voice calling from far away, or a sensation tugging him onward; but a feeling of harmony and 'rightness' with the plane he was strapped into. He shifted in the seat, shrugging into the straps with a slight feeling of unease, despite the rightness of it and the feeling of empowerment it gave. It felt like if he gave in to it, it would run away with him. And that felt like it might not be the worst thing in the world. He shuddered, trying to shake off the feeling, like something or someone familiar being close, knowing their thoughts and feelings, and tuned back into the situation. He as alarmed by how much the sensation had dimmed his situational awareness, and he made a quick eye-check over the instruments, and did and pan-and-scan visually of the surrounding sky - all clear. "Blade," Taia's voice said over the net, "what now? Are we just gonna let that boat go?" "We ain't gonna sink it," growled the fox back, turning onto course to meet up with the S-3 and A400M. "We got no idea who the hell's down there, and what they're up to. And I don't wanna win this war by killin' innocent people, an' working on half-assed hunches" "Knew there was a reason we followed you into this mess, Blade," said Nina over the radio, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Sounds like we were right about you" "Reckon you made the right choice there too, chief," said Jewel, her voice a lively tone over the comm channel. "Wouldn't have wanted to see we'd been working with someone who woulda made the call to send that little row-boat down; not without better proof they were all bad guys anyhow". Sean clicked the radio in reply. The words were an affirmation that the choice he'd made was the right one by his people, and they'd back him up when he inevitably had to face the music when he made it back to the island... which was the next concern on his mind. The others pulled in on his wing, and he saw the shape of the S-3 and A400 grow closer, slipping into position on the wings of the support aircraft as they all turned for the Easter Island, and the long voyage back home.

September 1st 2017

Border region between Tajikistan and China 10:00pm

Lieutenant Liao grimaced and rubbed his eyes again as he followed the prompts from his J-10's on-board navigation system to begin a turn. The Golden Cat and his squadron had been on patrol in the area for the last few hours, taking off in daylight and watching the light slip away. While the J-10 was more than capable of flight and operations at night, it was proving to be a strain on the squadron. Their commander had been pushing them hard, as they too had been pushed hard in the prosecution of war against the Islamic Republic's air and ground forces. While no attacks had been launched over the border as yet, there was no reason not to be cautious, and to expect the worst. But even so, it was tiring work with little payoff and little to do other than maintain a pre-set route at a set height and speed, and listen to the monotonous updates from the AWACS controller assigned to their squadron. Liaos' attention was drifting, and he was already thinking of his bunk back at the base. It wasn't particularly comfortable, nor inviting, but it was warm, and more comfortable than the ejection seat he was strapped into, and warm enough by comparison that it would feel like heaven by comparison. If only, he thought, he could curl up in it with the Tigress he'd seen in the village. She'd almost certainly been giving him a coy come-on with her eyes, and the way she'd spoken to him. The thought warmed him up a little, and he felt a slight smile crawling across his muzzle, and he gazed out of the cockpit idly- -and saw something flit by at low level, barely scraping the hill and mountain tops below. He paused, breathless for a moment, as he tried to acquire the aircraft again. As luck and providence would have it, the moon sliced through a gap in the sparse cloud cover, and cast the landscape below into glittering relief, stabbing out the shapes of six large aircraft at low level, in a wide-spread formation. Large, with long, pointed noses, almost awkward-looking swing-wings and a large single vertical tail, the steel-grey aircraft were almost certainly heavy bombers. Liao swore loudly and quickly hit his radio "Colonel Hsu, I have sighted six hostile aircraft, below us at five hundred feet! They are using the rough terrain to mask themselves from our radar!" "What are you talking about, Liao?" came back the Lynxes' sneering, tired voice, and Liao held his anger in check, as was the correct manner, before speaking again, measuring his words carefully. "Comrade Colonel, I have sighted six hostile aircraft on an attack profile for our base, and possibly other targets. They are heavy bombers, most likely supersonic, and are at a low altitude" There was a moment of silence, with just the hiss of the open channel, before he heard the same disbelieving exultation as his own, before the rapid-fire voice of his squadron leader reporting to the AWACS, which replied in the same disbelieving tone, until Hsu cut through the disbelief with an angry retort - the bombers were there, and were about to launch missiles, and they were in position to attack them. Little further discussion was needed, and the order was given. Liao and his wing-mates dropped lower, and increased throttle, following their trained orders and experience - though this time it had the added thrill of fear in its' being real - as they dived toward the big shapes of the bombers. The nights' silvery tones helped them a little, but did little to dull the creeping panic of confusing the blackness of the ground, studded sparsely with the burning lights of villages or individual dwellings and structures with the inky blackness of the heavens, spotted with the white lights of stars and satellites. He had to trust his altimeter and instruments as he dove closer. Flicking his selector to his radar-guided missiles, the Golden Cat jockeyed the delta-wing shape of the J-10 into a firing position, awaiting the growling tone that would indicate the missiles had locked on. After what seemed like a lifetime, the heavy bombers - a voice in his ear he'd been half-ignoring had identified them as TU-22M Backfires - began to scatter into evasive manoeuvres, diving and banking to all four points of the compass and everywhere in between. The harsh tone of his lock sounded in his ear, and he stabbed one gloved finger at the launch trigger, flicking the selector and firing again moments after with a second missile at the same target, the bomber now slicing sideways across his view. As the glare of the missiles' rocket motors faded into spots on his vision, he was distracted a half-moment later by the blossom of a fireball to his rear left accompanied by an abbreviated scream on the tactical net. The growling blare of his radar-warning receiver rattled against his skull, and he wrestled the stick hard to one side, jabbing the button for his countermeasures, and not a moment too soon as a missile veered alarmingly close to the canopy, followed by the sleek shape of the fighter that launched it. He needed no prompt to identify it as a MiG-29 Fulcrum; one of the most capable and deadly fighters employed by the Iranian Air Forces. They must have been escorting the bombers to the target, and now were doing their best to shred his squadron. Another blossom of fire marked the demise of another of his squadron, and he noted in a distant thought that the AWACS had disappeared off of the tactical network. Instead, the absurdly calm voice of a female ground controller informed them that reinforcements were inbound, and would be there within five minutes. He wanted to reply that in five minutes the battle would be over, one way or another, but it wouldn't achieve anything. One of the backfires erupted into flames as one of his surviving wingmen pressed home an attack with his cannon, tearing into the wing-root of the bomber. Something vital was hit, and the wing separated from the rest of the bomber, spiralling off on a separate course, and the big aircraft pitching into an uncontrolled wingover, and plunging downward to paint itself across the ground in a trail of fire. Renewed in his vigour, Liao pressed his attack as well. Selecting short-range missiles, he closed in on the rear of another of the backfires - and was astounded as a ribbon of tracers burst from the base of the bombers' tailfin. His J-10 shuddered under the hammer-blow of impacts, and multiple warning alarms sounded. The jets' controls became sluggish and mushy, and Liao suspected the control surfaces on a wing had been damaged. Grimacing, the feline selected his last two missiles, and wrestled with the controls, trying to bring his sights onto the bomber- The big TU-22M pitched upwards, and Liao's eyes were blasted with a nimbus of light as the bombers' payload was released. Rather than iron bombs, the blazing glare of cruise missile engines seared his retinas and he was blinded as the multiple missiles from both the two underwing hardpoints on the bomber and the multiple missiles in the bay launched. Overwhelmed, Liao tried to keep his course steady, spots dancing before his ruined night vision, he pushed the stick hard right and back, trying to climb away from the ground- The last thought flashed through his head, before the world around him thundered and roared, shaking like an earthquake before blackness snapped over him.

The ragged, flaming remains of the J-10 squadron crashed Earthward, as the smoky trails of missiles screamed at supersonic speeds toward the bases, power stations, defence installations telephone and data exchanges, and other key infrastructure points that had been designated as targets of importance to the Backfires' attacks. And in the wake of the heavy bombers darted in the lighter fighter-bombers, the Mirage F1's, SU-24's and Phantoms, with air cover from the few F-14's and F-5 Tigers, as well as the rest of the MiG-29's. The IRIAF had waited, shuffling their troops and aircraft closer and closer to the front lines over the weeks and days, bargaining their security against the possibility of a master stroke, winding down their combat operations to lull the Chinese into a false sense of security. In the lull, they had pushed tanker and cargo aircraft forward, along with the strikers themselves, using in-flight refuelling to stretch their legs, and thrust a dagger into the Chinese heart, wiping out everything they could within reach - and all of it with the intelligence and information passed along by the enigmatic 'Chessmen' who had approached them. All this and more was in the minds of Tufayli and his closest advisors, secured in a bunker beneath the heart of Tehran. They watched as their enemy - and former ally - had the military might that had been bought to bear on Tajikistan torn asunder, removing the immediate threat. A glance at the Mullahs and the Supreme Leader revealed only quiet, studied and thin-lipped looks on their faces. They still expected a reprisal attack by the Chinese and their long-range missiles or bombers; indeed, it _was_still a possibility. There was also the chance that the Allied Forces in Southern Afghanistan and elsewhere would strike back as well, but so far they too reeled in confusion, and had showed no signs of counter-attack. A look back to the big screens, and the first aircraft were now turning back for home, their targets eliminated. Of course, there had been casualties, this was to be expected. But compared to the successes, they were so few. They had bearded the lion in his lair, and lived to tell about it. Now, the second phase began. Without waiting for further word, Tufayli picked up an old-style telephone handset and pressed a button, ringing through to another area of the HQ. With a word from him, ground forces began to move en masse, heading out from pre-determined points and rolling towards objectives in Northern Afghanistan and Tajikistan. Pre-arranged and organised plans were set into motion, and objectives attacked, this time by massed tank and rocket batteries, or by Special Forces troops laid in wait.

In one night, the war had plummeted over a precipice, and the landscape of central Asia had changed.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Glossary:

F-4 Phantom: A multi-role fighter-bomber aircraft, originally designed and built in the USA in the late 1950's/early 1960's. The first combat aircraft to be armed with radar-guided air-to-air missiles, the phantom evolved heavily through its' design life, and was exported to multiple countries around the world, who then developed it further into more advanced and capable models. Many phantoms are still in use around the world, with the last expected to be retired in 2020

F-14 Tomcat: The F-14 Tomcat is probably one of the most recognisable aircraft in the world, due to its numerous appearances in media. A large swing-wing interceptor aircraft, it was originally designed and constructed for use aboard US Navy aircraft carriers. Later exported to Iran when the USA and Iran were allies, the Iranian F-14's were land-based. The F-14's were kept operational through black-market parts, and later with - assumed - assistance from Russian advisors, possibly extending to their modification to use indigenously designed weapons and avionic systems. US Tomcats were retired in the early 21st century, following decades of service, and numerous modifications to allow them to become multi-role aircraft. However, the Iranian Tomcats have undergone various different programs of modification and development, making them a mark apart from their American counterparts.

J-10: An indigenous fighter to China, capable of multi-role operations. An advanced design, the J-10 is a delta-winged canard aircraft, like the Eurofighter Typhoon, Dassault Rafale and Saab Gripen. It can carry radar-and infra-red guided missiles for air-to-air combat, as well as bombs and other ground-attack weapons. Featuring an all-glass cockpit and a helmet-mounted sight, the J-10 is competitive with most modern-day fighter aircraft, and is a very capable weapons-system.

MiG-29 Fulcrum: A Russian designed and built multi-role fighter aircraft, featuring an advanced aerodynamic design and structuring that result in superb handling in all flight regimes. Able to carry a wide-range of both air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons, the MiG-29 was one of the first combat aircraft to use features such as a helmet-mounted sight, and other advanced avionic systems. MiG-29's are exported widely around the world.

Mirage F1: A French-Designed and built aircraft, the Mirage F1 was designed primarily as a fighter, but has also been used as a light attack aircraft. Of conventional design with swept wings, a single tail and horizontal tailplanes, the Mirage F1 is a 1970's design, like many combat aircraft still in service, and has been updated continuously in the same manner.

Mirage F1's have been exported to multiple countries around the world, and used in many conflicts.

SMFD: Super-Multifunction Display. A fictional (currently) piece of technology used in a cockpit. Consisting of a single large LED Touchscreen, contoured to fit - and replace - an aircrafts' existing instruments, bar a few analogue or tape instruments as 'bare bones' backups. Configurable with multiple windows and displays, fed from the aircraft sensors and computer systems, for maximum efficiency for the pilot.

SU-24 Fencer: A Russian designed and built ground-attack aircraft, the SU-24 is roughly analogous to the American F-111 fighter-bomber. The SU-24 is of a similar size and design, featuring swing-wings and a large capacity for air-to-ground weaponry, as well as self-defence air-to-air weapons. SU-24's remain in service in large numbers, however, and have been upgraded considerably over their service lives to keep them competitive (although, Nina and Red's F-111 is a generation ahead again, due to its unique modifications). Like many other former-soviet aircraft, the SU-24 was exported around the world, primarily to former Soviet client and satellite states.