Fangs Out & Hair Afire

[X] Plan Whack-a-SAM

Ten minutes of back-and-forth later, you and Ghost meet in the middle; a slightly bizarre load including two HARMs, two Mavericks, some TALDs (you didn't even know those were available), and a pair of Rockeyes. You glance up to see MacDowell - who really does need a callsign, so you mentally dub him Big Iron pending a flight vote on the matter - still glaring at his sheet, Beaker and Tallboy conversing quietly, both evidently unamused by something.

Leaving Ghost to take your paperwork to the harried-looking collection of ordy handlers, you wander over to the not-quite-argument brewing between Tallboy and Beaker. "Waddup, you two?"

They pause, exchanging a glance. Beaker waves irritably in Tallboy's direction. "He wants to trade in. Not fourteen hours before an op."

"Don't act like McCoy can't get the bird spun up in two, tops. And he'd hardly bitch about the money." Tallboy returns. Turning to you, he gestures to his plane. "Math says I'll need two externals for this, but that leaves me light enough on actual killy shit I may as well just not go. Superbug needs tanks, but has the load and pylons to carry a worthwhile payload as well - and McCoy's said he's got planes in, as in in-country, so it won't even be a wait."

You arch an eyebrow. "You're checked out on the Superbug?"

He nods. "And the legacy Bug, too. Conversion training from the prewar days. Not the most current, but, is anyone-" he gestures as the bustling airfield (and, presumably, the world at large) "-going to complain too hard?"

You sigh. "Fair. If your new bird's here and ready by the time we're set to lift, go off."

He nods and takes off at a jog, heading towards one of the hangars. Beaker shakes her head. "Here's hoping that won't bring us back to a three-ship."

You shrug. "Brent wouldn't do it if he didn't think it would work. How're you loading, by the way?"

"Mostly bombs." is the answer. "Mostly GBU-twelves and -sixteens. Couple Mavericks, spare HARM just in case. You?"

"A bit of a mess." you reply, with no small amusement. "Pair each Mavericks, GBU-twelves, HARMs, and TALDs. Didn't even know they had TALDs in stock, here."

Beaker blinks. "What, trying to cover all the bases, and then some? What it's worth, Tallboy was talking about loading mostly for point targets - Mavericks and GBU-twelves. Couple of Rockeyes, I think he said, too."

"If it's sharing time," MacDowell cuts in, strolling up, "Figure I'll throw some variety into the mix - mostly air-to-air, couple of LGBs if we need 'em. Even with bags on, this would be seriously pushing range with any sort of heavy load."

You hmm a response when MacDowell's gaze flicks over your shoulder - turning, you espy a pilot wearing the mercenary roundtable and a Jolly Roger approaching. Nodding, he queries, "One of your the flight lead here?"

Extending a hand, you speak up. "Marcus Kallon, callsign Specter, Knight five-one."

Taking the offered handshake, the other man smiles. "Raphael Morin, callsign Handy, Pirate one-five. We've gathering all the flight leads and such for a quick confab; figure out at least a vague chain of command, plus we've got some information that might be relevant. You busy, or…?"

A glance at Beaker and Big Iron draws a pair of negative head-shakes. "Not imminently. Just gotta wait for- ah, nevermind." you interrupt yourself as Ghost ducks under your plane, wandering up. With a silent let's go gesture, you both fall in behind Handy as he leads you to what looks like one of the alert shacks.

The inside reveals it to be a former alert shack, with the furnishings cleared out in favour of a pair of large tables, one of which bears a map - and is surrounded by folks in flight suits, an array of flags and patches represented. Joining the crowd, you exchange several nods of greeting before another two men file in, pulling the door closed behind them.

"Right." a stocky man bearing the Black Flag patch speaks up, casting a look around the room. "This isn't secret per-se, but something that, for security reasons, we'd prefer not be widely shared. Capisce?"

A round of nods and affirmatives, and he continues. "Now, some of us have lost personnel - not all killed. Word from some old friends says any captured mercs in this area wind up here." he taps the map, a spot maybe thirty klicks south of the Norfolk yard. "Naval Consolidated Brig Chesapeake, right near the North Carolina border. We're not sure why there specifically, but it works out in our favour here - we intend to mount a rescue op."

Raising his voice slightly - over the sudden flurry of surprised (and considering) murmurs, the man says, "Naturally, we haven't run this past our hosts - largely because our read says they'll nay-say it. We won't need much by way of aircraft - we've got transports to get a volunteer unit of merc paras in, and Chesapeake Regional is ten klicks away - one of the planes will drop some light vehicles, just in case, but the plan is to use whatever can be picked up at the prison facility to move our people out. Circus will handle the drop and exfil."

"Circus?" someone asks. A young woman - this time with a jester's hat patch on her arm, and a nametag reading 'London', raises a hand.

"Circus. Transport element for Siren Song Security. Our volunteers are mostly Free Fusiliers, plus an independent team of spec-ops types."

The leader of the meet - whose nametag, you belatedly realize, reads 'Hannigan' - picks things up again. "Realistically, we only need a flight or so of cover - sweep the area for AA threats, and interdict anything trying to take a swipe at Circus while the footsloggers do their thing. We expect the big fuck-off brawl over the navy yard will take precedence, as it should. Any volunteers?"

Some murmuring and consideration later - you give it a moment's thought, but your load isn't really suited to playing CAP - and a hand is raised. "Tuba flight can cover it. Hornets, air-to-air, some SEAD."

Hannigan nods towards the hand. "Alright, you've got the CAP for this, then."

"Query." Ghost cuts in. "If this is supposed to be vaguely secret, how are you explaining the transports following us?"

London half-smiles. "We're leaving early, ostensibly to move the Fusiliers out-of-country. We'll link up at an anchor off the coast."

Ghost nods, and someone with a Skywatch insignia speaks up. "We want a BARCAP between the brig and NAS Oceana?"

Hannigan shakes his head. "No. CAP will have to cover it - a BARCAP just draws more attention."

"So about that chain of command…" Daishi - standing in a corner - pipes up, smirk on his face. Chuckles ripple throughout the room as Hannigan gives Alpha Flight's boss an appraising look.

"What, you want it?"

"If there's no objections." Daishi returns smoothly, casting a questioning gaze around the room. Shrugs abound - one voice mutters a faintly-heard better you than me, mate. Seemingly satisfied, the Eagle driver nods. "Alright. Knight one-one, Daishi - Hannigan, you want to wrangle the mud-moving assets?"

Hannigan gives him a nod. "Sure. Pirate one-one, Haymaker. Any other concerns, comments, questions?"

---

You stand back, watching the ordy handlers wrangling weapons onto your bird. A brief chat with Ghost and the lead tech had seen you shift one HARM from the number three station to number ten, swapping with the Mavericks - hopefully cutting down on the trim you'd need to balance things out. Tallboy's Fulcrum has vanished - the man himself reportedly talking with McCoy.

Beaker's own plane is loaded - MacDowell's finishing up. The rumble of an aircraft tractor draws your attention - and a raised eyebrow, as a Super Hornet sporting a dark blue livery is towed into the parking spot next to yours. Tallboy strolls up, satisfaction evident in his gait as he sketches a bow at you. "Knight five-two, reporting, aircraft acquired."

"So I see." you observe blandly. "Two hours? McCoy's motivated today."

Brent shrugs. "I paid a bit of a premium, but hey. It's here. Load chart's in and everything."

Nodding, you return your gaze to the four mismatched aircraft; your own black-grey dazzle, Tallboy's navy blue, Bunny's-currently-Beaker's own plane unchanged from its low-vis grey beyond invasion stripes on its wings - and MacDowell's Gripen, likewise in its unremarkable low-vis.

Pondering a moment, you glance sidelong at Ghost - psychically transmitting a question. Or trying to, at any rate.

[] Bring the flight up-to-speed on the mercs' plan - you trust them not to say anything.
[] It's called "need-to-know" for a reason - trust aside, they can be told once you're in the air. Just call the vote on MacDowell's callsign.
[] Write-in; something else you need doing? With twelve hours until go time, a nap is in your future, but you've got time.

[X] It's called "need-to-know" for a reason - trust aside, they can be told once you're in the air. Just call the vote on MacDowell's callsign.

Ghost, without even a glance in your direction, shrugs almost imperceptibly - up to you. Restraining a sigh, you glance at Tallboy. "Probably should get everyone together soon-ish. Four still needs a callsign, no? Plus any last-minute queries or suchlike."

He hmms. "Ten minutes?" You nod an affirmation, and he sets off, casting about for Beaker and McDowell. Ghost leans against you, still staring at the planes. You idly wrap an arm around her shoulders, watching ordy handlers scramble around a pair of Aardvarks further down, wheeling a truly comical number of heavy iron bombs over to the big aircraft.

"So." Ghost intones. You arch an eyebrow, glancing down at your diminutive partner.

"So."

"Being honest, I think I expected that meeting to be far more about dick-waving over the command slot than… that."

You chuckle softly. "What, not expecting a merc coalition to come together to stage a prison break on behalf of their fellows?"

Tabby snorts. "'Mercenary' is not a word that brings to mind altruists and anarchic do-gooders, no. More… McCoy with an AK in hand, type of thing."

"A couple years ago, sure. Twelve months ago, probably." you muse. "But now? I imagine most folks - in North America, at any rate - think 'self-employed foreign legion' rather than," you gesture vaguely, "a bunch of goons in Angola paid in French blood money or what-have-you. Given the former is more or less what we've been doing."

She shrugs. "True. I do wonder sometimes why they didn't just establish actual foreign legions, honestly. Didn't the Marines, at least, allow foreign nationals to enlist - a path to citizenship, or somesuch?"

"Think so?" you frown. "Not a hundred percent on the details, but something like that. As for the other bit, might be legal weirdisms - American law, and by extension-" you wave a hand to rhetorically encompass the entire former U.S. "-the rest, have some frankly bizarre and asinine things in. PMCs already existed, so, presumably just loosening restrictions on what types of gear they could use was more straightforward than erecting foreign legions from whole cloth."

Ghost hmms as Tallboy strides towards you, Beaker and McDowell in tow. For their parts, Theresa looks barely this side of gleeful, and McDowell, rather wary. "Two said something about a team meeting?"

You nod affably, offering a thin smile. "There comes a time in a young man's life when he must stand and endure. When he mustn't return fire, but simply hold his head high and accept fate as it falls upon him from on high."

The Texan looks like he's just aged about a decade in the span of five seconds. "Callsign?"

You nod judiciously. "Callsign. Thusly, I open the floor to the flight for suggestions and commentary."

Tallboy considers the shorter man at length, eyes narrowed. "A tricky one, to be sure. Beaker?"

The WSO in question matches his considering pose, one hand under her chin - effect only slightly ruined by being rather shorter than McDowell. "A difficult choice indeed. Perhaps we should begin with the obvious?"

"Big Iron." you muse, noting with amusement both Tallboy and Beaker's eyes flicking briefly to the, well, big iron McDowell seems to wear habitually. You've never been much of a revolver aficionado, but it looks like an older one - certainly not one of the dinky little police revolvers.

"Could work." Tallboy speculates aloud. "Maybe a bit obvious, but, not wrong."

"Equally obvious," Beaker notes, "but perhaps Vaquero?"

Brent directs a sidelong look at her. "¿Tú hablas español?"

"Obviamente." she returns, grinning. "Where'd you pick it up, Chicago Boy?"

"Old man, actually." he trunks back to McDowell, examining the visibly-uncomfortable pilot a long moment. "Yeah. I think Vaquero gets my vote."

Ghost, silent beside you, steps forward - slowly circling McDowell, expression utterly blank. You're not sure how you restrain the laugh at the look on his face - but you do. After a very long moment, Tabby, too, nods decisively. "Vaquero."

"Vaquero it is." you affirm, holding out a hand. The newly-dubbed Vaquero takes it with an expression you can only describe as this is my life now.

"I should probably be grateful it wasn't worse, huh." he mutters. Beaker laughs openly as you offer an affirming chuckle. Tallboy, for his part, stretches briefly and glances about.

"Well, that little bit of drama over with, do we have somewhere to rack out?"

You blink, casting a querying look at Ghost - and receiving a negative head-shake in return. "Open question. Guess you could track down one of the locals. Or just find somewhere to set up a cot or somesuch."

Beaker arches an eyebrow at you. "Not find an alert shack or something?"

You shrug, gesturing incomprehensibly. "If you want to fight everyone else on the flight line for one, go right ahead. Though speaking of rack time, if you'll excuse me…" you turn towards your plane, Ghost falling in beside you.

It's the work of not even five minutes to have your hammock-slash-sleeping-bag out of your kit and strung out under the left wing, tied off to the number three pylon (with some careful wrangling to not entangle it in the pair of Mavericks there) and the other end to one of the tie-down points on the landing gear. Slinging yourself in, you make yourself comfortable - reflexively holding out one arm so Tabby can climb in with you, snuggling close as you swiftly check out of consciousness.

---

You're not entirely sure what wakes you - you're still damn tired (and, as you crack an eye open, the sky's still light), nobody's poked you, no noises you'd not expect; it's actually weirdly quiet, all told.

Then the rest of your senses make their reports - Ghost, face buried in your shoulder, drawing the deep, shuddering breaths of someone trying rather hard not to cry.

Yeah, that'd do it.

You're not great with words, this you know - in the realm of instruction, technical vocabulary, or in day-to-day chatter you're fine, sure, but the area of 'sincerely expressing honest sympathy' is a closed book in a locked bookcase.

On the plus side, this is not an insurmountable problem - carefully, you enfold Tabby in a hug, letting the brief hitch in her breathing pass without comment. She simply tightens her grip, letting the silence hang.

[] What say?