Natural Born Soviet Airwoman - Airplanes vs Aliens

Shooting planes was a scientific exercise, and one that, despite dozens of hours of training, you still didn't have an intuitive grasp on. The ring of the reflex sight could be used to judge the distance to the target: you would turn the knob to match the wingspan of the target, and then would judge by the size in the ring how big they were. All well and good, but you didn't know the size of the target.

You could guess, though. You had a pretty good memory. You pushed rudder right as the first tentative shots passed, trying to remember the relative wingspans when you'd fire seen the squadrons pass overhead. It wasn't twice as big, but it was bigger. You dialed in 13 meters. Attacking bombers was something you trained for a lot, and you knew the principles. Ideally, you wanted to come in on an arc, so that you were always keeping the bomber in your sights, while moving rapidly in the gunsights of the turret operators. You took your time to set that up, gaining speed and a few dozen meters altitude before swinging in hard.

Setting it all up seemed to take forever and you were convinced, absolutely convinced, that it was going to cost you. But when you finally made your attack run, concentrating hard on your crosshairs, you found it so easy. The bomber stayed almost stationary in your sights as you rolled in, and the moment the wingspan matched the ring you fired a short burst and nosed down. There was that dizzying, light headed feeling that came with even the smallest negative G maneuver, and a shudder in your engine as the carburetor backed up for a moment, but then you were free and clear, turning and glancing back at your target as you came level with it again.

The ball turret at the rear was smashed, the gun hanging limp. There were holes throughout the rear half of the machine, crawling up and through the wing, and a huge chunk of its vertical stabilizer was missing. Black smoke billowed out in a cloud, and sparks flew. It wasn't destroyed, but it was beginning a slow and delicate turn, its propulsion ring glowing hot as it tried to speed out of there.

You were all ready to set up for another attack run when something whizzed past your cockpit. A tell-tail tracer. You glanced back to see not one, but two enemy aircraft, light scouts like the escorts, dropping out of the clouds.

Of course they were. Of course they had pilots flying overwatch. And with everyone still fighting their targets, they were focused on you like a laser.

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