White Lightning
Recommended Listening: Dark Necessities,
by the Red Hot Chili Peppers
Yeah, you don't know my mind
You don't know my kind
Dark necessities are part of my design
Tell the world that I've fallen from the sky...
Dark necessities are part of my design
You're a bit surprised to see a jet trainer, instead of a utility aircraft, being used to deliver the VIP. A Very Important Person whom the Yuktobanians have declined to identify except as "an Air Force general of great experience and stature." But with a sizeable share of X-COM USEA's early funding having come from the Yukes, you owe them, even if those resources are flowing to X-COM VERUSA now. If they want to send someone to meet you and your pilots in person, without much advance briefing, it is at most a slightly irregular request. So you agreed.
The Razgriz, being curious, a bit bored, and on high alert that stops them from getting too comfortable, come out with you to watch the visitor arrive. Their delta-wing plane is, like quite a few Yuke aircraft, colored white with red stars- but a brighter shade of white than usual. You recognize the matte white antiflash paint of a plane designed to operate around battlefields where burst- or even nuclear- warheads are being thrown around.
Identifying the plane takes you a moment, though. Needle-nosed, delta-winged, obviously a high-Mach interceptor from out of the old days... an Su-15, it must be. The Yukes still use a few of the old trainer variants, you hear.
The jet stops near where you stand on the flight line, with a crew rushing up to tend to the plane. The pilot clambers out easily- but stops, taking off his helmet, and assists them with his passenger. The figure riding in the rear seat of the interceptor is stooped, hunched- small and genderless in a flight suit and oxygen mask. They don't step away from the helping hands of the Selatapura ground crew until the pilot passes them a pair of canes. Then they begin to walk slowly, leaning on the canes, climbing into the cart that brings the Yukes closer.
The oldster takes off their helmet, shaking-
her- head and gently patting at the small, tight bun made of her hair.
She looks vaguely familiar to you. Only vaguely. But the Razgriz, all in their own ways, lock eyes on her at once.
Blaze, quiet as ever, just eyes the little babushka with an expression you've seen many times before, in the past year.
The look of eagles, you've heard it called. And she looks back, with the same expression, despite clearly being only a shadow of
whatever she once was. Something unspoken passes between them.
Pops' eyebrows rise. And Captain Bartlett sounds, for the first time since you've known him, actually shaken. "Am I imagining things, or did the Yukes send
the White Witch?"
Archer, somehow still radiating an aura of greenness despite being over thirty with a kill count that could fill a large bus, turns to the older men. "Wait, who? What's wrong?"
He's never heard of her? But you have, and it clicks into place.
Marina Popova.
Molniya One. The woman who tore through the Sounder Bay Crisis fifty years ago in a MiG-17, humiliating Osea's proxies in Leasath and ripping apart the Danern Island separatists, earning the fearful monicker 'White Lightning.'
She went on to carve a similar swath through the Osean Air Force over Kaluga, then became a grim terror for all arms of the Osean forces when the proxy wars started to go hot. The woman in the antiflash white Su-15 wove through the teeth of the Typhon missile defense network, again and again, sinking at least as many Osean warships as the
Scinfaxi ever would. Shot down YB-350 Firebird strategic projection aircraft,
three times, then destroyed the production line in the first laser-guided bombing attack in history. Crossed swords with the then-legendary Unicorn Squadron three times as well. And once when they were flying Osea's exotic new prototype superplane- the F-16A. Put an end to General Poe's plan to end the Hot War with XM-PLUTO nuclear ramjet missiles, by flying into the tunnels of the abandoned Mesa Plata silver mines and blowing apart the prototypes. The political- and literal- fallout from
that had been one of the biggest arguments ever handed to the Osean peace movement.
The war had sputtered out after that, in part because the Osean Navy had grimly warned President Francis that Molniya One could put invasion fleets on the bottom of the Pacific faster than Osea could assemble them.
And come to think of it, Bartlett had joined the Air Force right around the time that trainers would have hit their peak of using "the Wicked Witch of the West" as a boogeywoman to scare nuggets with. Not that you can blame them, having seen the impact someone like Trigger can have in a war zone.
And the mystery surrounding the defense of Cinigrad in the Circum-Pacific War hadn't done anything to reduce the aura of her name.
Or the uncertainty about whether she could still fly, after being shot down during the First Continental War in 1998. She might not look remotely fit for a dogfight as she is now, but something in the DNA of your Osean military training stirs, quietly, and can't help but wonder.
Maybe this will be how Eruseans look at Mobius One or Trigger when
they're eighty years old.
She smiles and nods to you. "Long Caster, I presume…" Her eyes narrow. "And these are the Razgriz." The words are not a question.
Awkward. Yuktobania's greatest ace in living memory- who is
still rumored to have been flying the Salyut planes, somehow. Though that rumor raises questions about how she survived a Salyut fighter crashing and going up in a fireball during her second engagement with Cyclops Squadron.
Blaze speaks calmly. "We are." Again, something unspoken passes between him and General Popova.
She leans on her canes a little harder. "...That war was a frightful waste."
And
all the Razgriz nod, their leader again managing to be expressive with a mere two syllables.
"It was."
"A lot of my trainees didn't make it." She smiles sadly, and shakes her head. "Is…" she fumbles for the word. "Occupational hazard. I know. Have been there. Little Svetlana, at least, made it through the war."
Blaze remains, as always, calculating. Pops and Bartlett are older, too close to the days of her terror to speak to Popova without thinking. For once, it's Archer who doesn't hesitate.
"Svetlana?"
She smiles, looking genuinely proud. "My great-niece. With Wisna Squadron. Cruik Fortress- and Sudentor."
"I- remember her."
"She remembers you!" And there is a wicked humor in her eyes, suddenly, something that calls out to you,
I may be old and toothless, but oh, what times I've had! "But so rude of me, to ignore your commander!"
Her apologies, in the following moments, aren't fulsome- but are gracious, and she certainly seems interested in the base, and your operations. The questions come fast, though the silent pilot at her elbow gently ushers her back into the cart to sit back down. Archer interjects a few times, Blaze twice, Pops once. Bartlett still seems to be calming back down.
"You have Pixy
and the Three Strikes here, da?" She cackles, switching the cane in her right hand to her left and gesturing. "I would like to shake his hand."
"He's on leave right now, actually."
"Bold of you to put him there. Confident. I like that. Hmm… I wonder if I can stay long enough to see him. But Pixy! Good man! Just had to learn not to steal my colors." She smiles, waving a hand widely, a bit more vigorously than you'd expect when you first saw him. "Only met him in person the once, years ago! I hope he still likes his nickname! And also, wanted to ask… Cyclops Squadron is with you, but Wiseman, not on your roster. Where is he?"
You feel a still-fresh spike of pain, and force out the words. "Killed in the war."
She makes a wordless sound. "I'm sorry. He was very good." She shakes her head. "Who?"
"Shilage."
Her hand tightens on her cane, pale knuckles whitening a shade. "Ah-
ha. Well, at least your boy is avenged, then." Her smile is like something off a shark, now, and you can tell that she's thinking at least as much of her own history as of Wiseman. Not that you blame her.
She turns- to Blaze, with the look of eagles spreading first on her face, then on his.
"
You know. War is fucking shit-" she drops the curses as casually as Daniel would- "and you are always dancing with the Devil. But if you are very good- you make the Devil let you lead." And again the wicked smile, and for one of the few times you can remember, Blaze smiles back.