Thread One: Bounce bounce bounce
7734
Trust and verify.
- Location
- Philmont
Hello all, and welcome to my first Let's Read. My folder of reaction images is almost vast, my flying knowledge is grand, and this is going to be one of the most interesting things for about five minutes. Welcome to the insanity, folks. Advanced warning- the author of the original work utterly slams Strike Witches, and after watching the series and holding up my Anoku to ward of the lesbian stupids, I'll be slapping it too for the begining bits. After that, well, there's pleanty of shit the author screws up to make fun of too.
THREAD ONE: THE QUESTING
Ahh, sweet free, clean, mostly good prose, how I thought you didn't exist-
-nooooooooooope.
Anyway, things continue on and are happily boring for a minute, before the Author remembers something. He's writing Pilots. Young, male, American pilots who are bored. The following is practically mandatory.
Top Gun jokes aside, there's no real choice here. It's bouncing time, and ohwaitaminute. I bet y'all don't know what that is, because you're not Pilots, which is practically a separate language. Click the spoiler if you want the gritty details.
For reference, the plane in question is a P-61 Black Widow.
A brick with wings and an assload of guns with the radar in back, this is the plane you fly for the entire series with one exception. Designed as a night fighter and radar hauler (because that shit was heavy and planes were smaller) they had a lackluster record in the real world because by the time they were in production and flying most of the Axis airfields and carriers were reduced to chunky salsa or empty parking lots because of the fact that islands make AWESOME airbases from which to bitch-slap the other guy and the fact that America never ran out of material.
And as any fifth grader with a good sense of curiosity, bricks fall like, dah dah daaaaah, bricks. Mounting engines only makes 'em fall faster.
After discovering that ditching your patrol route and pantsing your bosses is a BAD IDEA, our Intrepid Hero quickly proves that he can haul ass faster than an angry 13-year-old with a pair of tiny little reality-fucking engines. Look at this chick.
Look really, really hard. Does this look like the face of a trained aviator and all-around soldier? I'm gonna say after you dig through the PTSD and abandonment issues, Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnope.
Back to our regularly scheduled fuckery, though. With the po-po on his six, his crew yelling at him for being a retard, and the Radar Witch bearing down on him, it's time to do something.
Now, here's a kicker- most planes have a barometric altimeter, which gives out your height above sea level. This is really useful for navy-types, but the ground tends to be a weeee bit higher than the sea, which means that if you fuck up the math, you get a nice shiny metal coffin that was your plane when you dig your grave at 300+ knots.
Of course, the ground fucks up radar just as it much does planes, and if you get close enough to the ground you can hide next to it, which is the general plan here. Add in the fact that England is effectively a cloud magnet, and the only way the Witches are gonna find him is if they ram him.
He's flying a brick. They're flying their panties and some engines. Three guesses as to who wins.
...
Pilot, your plans are shit. They are all of the shit. You really think that this excuse will save you?
>But wait!
>The Witches are flying under RAF control!
>The Royal Ass Fuckers hate talking to the stinking Americans!
Thank you greentext memory, just when I needed to remember that the English had more beauracray issues than the Americans before you bring in the Witches.
After parking the plane on one engine because he fucked the other over, Pilot proceeds to laugh loudly and get out of dodge to the O-club, where this thread ends.
Of course, please comment and enjoy!
THREAD ONE: THE QUESTING
Article: Brilliant quicksilver radiance lights the night sky, reflecting well off the thick carpet of clouds that stretch out below you. The late winter sky is crystal clear, the Milky Way a stunning band of luminescence cutting across the sky. It's easy to forget the earth exists, on nights like this - staring into that vast expanse of sky, begging you to dive in.
And singing softly over the lambent-lit cloudscape, a gentle, hesitant, sweet melody... La la... la la la... la la la...
Ahh, sweet free, clean, mostly good prose, how I thought you didn't exist-
Article: "Does this bitch ever shut UP?"
You smack your fist into your kneeboard in frustration.
"Seriously. Every fucking night, this tuneless 'la la la la' bullshit in my headphones. It drives me fucking nuts. Doesn't that bint know the goddamn WORDS?"
"It's a piano tune, you knuckle-dragging ape," Ian interjects languidly from his seat above and behind you. "Her father's a famous Russian composer. Piano tunes don't have words, so you have to-"
"La la la de fucking da all night long, righto, gotcha," Sean gripes. "Fantastic composing, that. Just the kind of pissweak elegance you'd expect from the Russkies."
-nooooooooooope.
Anyway, things continue on and are happily boring for a minute, before the Author remembers something. He's writing Pilots. Young, male, American pilots who are bored. The following is practically mandatory.
Top Gun jokes aside, there's no real choice here. It's bouncing time, and ohwaitaminute. I bet y'all don't know what that is, because you're not Pilots, which is practically a separate language. Click the spoiler if you want the gritty details.
Bounces are a fairly simple pilot trick that trades altitude for airspeed to get into a pursiut curve, pictured.
Most bounces aim for a pure intercept, which puts the enemy right in the bouncing plane's gunsights. However, as we're about to see, this is a "friendly" bounce, designed to scare the everloving shit out of someone without situational awareness.
Such as a bored radar witch.
Most bounces aim for a pure intercept, which puts the enemy right in the bouncing plane's gunsights. However, as we're about to see, this is a "friendly" bounce, designed to scare the everloving shit out of someone without situational awareness.
Such as a bored radar witch.
Article: You remind yourself that you've got serious responsibilities, and this $200,000 twin-engined night fighter is not your personal toy.
That reminder amounts to diddly squat. You're twenty years old, you're a fighter pilot, you've got 4,000 horsepower at your fingertips and you're bored as hell.
For reference, the plane in question is a P-61 Black Widow.
A brick with wings and an assload of guns with the radar in back, this is the plane you fly for the entire series with one exception. Designed as a night fighter and radar hauler (because that shit was heavy and planes were smaller) they had a lackluster record in the real world because by the time they were in production and flying most of the Axis airfields and carriers were reduced to chunky salsa or empty parking lots because of the fact that islands make AWESOME airbases from which to bitch-slap the other guy and the fact that America never ran out of material.
Article: Perfect.
Nosing over, you put your massive P-61 into a steep power dive, screaming out of the heavens like a black brick of fury and thunder. Aiming a little behind the Junkers, you haul back on the stick, coming level six hundred yards behind them with almost 550 MPH on the speedometer.
You eat up the distance nigh instantly, thundering underneath the Junkers while bellowing into your radio.
"ALAKAZAM, MOTHERFUCKERS!"
And as any fifth grader with a good sense of curiosity, bricks fall like, dah dah daaaaah, bricks. Mounting engines only makes 'em fall faster.
After discovering that ditching your patrol route and pantsing your bosses is a BAD IDEA, our Intrepid Hero quickly proves that he can haul ass faster than an angry 13-year-old with a pair of tiny little reality-fucking engines. Look at this chick.
Look really, really hard. Does this look like the face of a trained aviator and all-around soldier? I'm gonna say after you dig through the PTSD and abandonment issues, Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnope.
Back to our regularly scheduled fuckery, though. With the po-po on his six, his crew yelling at him for being a retard, and the Radar Witch bearing down on him, it's time to do something.
Article: Time for your move. The witches magic might mimic radar, which shows her where you are... but not how you're oriented. With the last of your airspeed, you roll the Black Widow inverted, and wait.
"I've got a visual," Sean says, voice heavy. "She'll have our numbers in a seeeEEEOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH-" he wails as you ram the stick forward. The spoilerons deploy and your Black Widow literally drops out of the sky like a stone. Nose pointed at the earth, you slam the throttles forward against the stops, and both massive Double-Wasp radials scream with primal fury as over four-thousand horsepower surge through the aircraft.
"YAAAAAHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooo" you whoop like a red injun with a scalp in each hand as you thunder out of the sky. Ian, behind you, sounds interested for the first time in weeks when he interrupts you.
"Pull... UP...." he manages a placid grunt, a skill unique to him.
Now, here's a kicker- most planes have a barometric altimeter, which gives out your height above sea level. This is really useful for navy-types, but the ground tends to be a weeee bit higher than the sea, which means that if you fuck up the math, you get a nice shiny metal coffin that was your plane when you dig your grave at 300+ knots.
Article: You decide to oblige him, reeling in the stick around 3,000 feet. The airframe groans in earnest this time, and your ass is crushed into your parachute with a vengeance this time, but you easily level out before passing 1,000 feet. You hear Ian and Sean emit flaky sighs.
"What were you approaching again, sweetheart? WOOHOO!" you howl in triumph. The moon can't press through the solid overcast and this low to the ground, even the Witch's magic will be greatly confused by ground clutter - or that's how Sean explained it, anyways. In the pitch-dark, near the ground, you're safe.
Of course, the ground fucks up radar just as it much does planes, and if you get close enough to the ground you can hide next to it, which is the general plan here. Add in the fact that England is effectively a cloud magnet, and the only way the Witches are gonna find him is if they ram him.
He's flying a brick. They're flying their panties and some engines. Three guesses as to who wins.
Article: "Oh man, how are we going to talk our way out of this?" Sean marvels. "There's only one ship assigned to that corridor, and that's us." He's silent for a minute, which you respect as the feat of phenomenal will it is - for Sean. "Yeah, can't see an excuse good enough to save us from Misses Super-Pissed. We're boned."
"You don't sound very worried," you grump.
"Probably because you're the pilot," Sean says cheerfully. "Which means you're boned. We're just victims of circumstance."
Sometimes you really, really want to put the Widow in a steep climb and let that asshole just fall right out the back. Alas, they fixed the imploding plexiglass problem months ago.
"We were never here," you decide. "We turned for home five minutes ago with engine trouble. Right there in my logbook."
"And the radio chatter?" Ian says.
"Sure was some smart-mouthed Black Widow pilot. Boy, I'm glad I'm not him!"
...
Pilot, your plans are shit. They are all of the shit. You really think that this excuse will save you?
>But wait!
>The Witches are flying under RAF control!
>The Royal Ass Fuckers hate talking to the stinking Americans!
Thank you greentext memory, just when I needed to remember that the English had more beauracray issues than the Americans before you bring in the Witches.
After parking the plane on one engine because he fucked the other over, Pilot proceeds to laugh loudly and get out of dodge to the O-club, where this thread ends.
Of course, please comment and enjoy!
