POP UP BANDIT QUEST ON THE NOSE
ID'ed AS HOSTILE
ALL PLAYERS, WEAPONS FREE
ID'ed AS HOSTILE
ALL PLAYERS, WEAPONS FREE
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- Ongoing
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Statistics (3 threadmarks, 3.4k words)
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TAKEOFF 0.1
- Location
- Somewhere over the rainbow
It's time for you to be a fighter jet ace in a strangely realistic setting; a Strangereal setting, you might say...
Project Wingman/Ace Combat/Top Gun/Top Gun: Maverick inspired
You hate rainy days.
You especially hate monsoon days, when the sky drops half the ocean on you.
Actually, you really hate monsoon season, when it's hot and muggy and turns your daily walk into a daily swim.
This is deeply unfortunate, because you live in a place where monsoon season is half the year.
[] [ORIGIN] National Defense Force
Ah well. It's your home, what can you do?
[] [ORIGIN] Allied Detachment
Just six more months in this jungle hellhole, and then you can finally go home.
Today it's really pouring, which is something. You think you can see the hangar frame start to sway under the weight of all the rain sloughing down. The sky is so dark that the shitty bulbs are on at noon, and you still can't see for shit out there. Damn rain's keeping you from your walk, and you can't see for shit.
"Nice weather, eh?" Damian says, tossing another dart at his dartboard.
Damian 'Wings' O'Neilly. Tall, nearly gangly, black haired black-eyed pale-skinned son of a gun. He'd be your favorite wingmate in this wing of four, except for the other two wingmates in front of him; but at least he's got a sense of humor about it. He earned his callsign by managing to land a plane in basic so badly both wings were completely totaled, and yet he survived without even a scratch. Lucky devil, that one, and that's why you all put up with his regular comedy.
"Shut the fuck up," you say. You've had this conversation more times than you can count. "This much rain's bad news for us too, you know."
"Don't remind me," Joaquin drawls, sprawled out over the half empty crate of 'entertainment', under the ceiling's highest point. "And no one say a damn thing, you hear me?"
Joaquin 'Valley' Ramirez. A woman on the shorter side ("Average for my people!" she shouts), brown and trying to bleach her rebellious hair away from her brown roots. Your second favorite wingman, since she scammed you over a game of poker a week back; always a card shark, in the air and in the ground. Didn't save her that one time, though, when the valley of this shitty-ass ceiling on this hangar finally gave out and soaked her in monsoon rains. No one needs to say anything about the monsoon rains; that's just what 'Valley' means to you all now.
"Kid's right, this monsoon is trouble for us," Terry says, polishing his plane's ladder. "Rumor has it that we're the ones who're on combat patrol next."
Teruyoshi 'Gramps' Miura. Your new favorite wingmate, after all of your other wingmates disqualified themselves. Silver-haired, the man looks twenty years older than his actual age of twenty-five; you've seen fifty year olds who look younger than he does. People constantly think he's older and more important than he actually is, and he doesn't bother correcting them. That's how you get all the latest rumors, at least, so Gramps is good for you, personally. Though if you can get ahold of evidence of his rebellious youth phase...
Ah well.
"Seriously? In this weather?" Joaquin grumbles.
"Tell me about it," you say, staring out of the window. You think you see a flash of movement. Something like -
Your eyes widen. You run away from the door and scramble for your pilot's gear.
You make it three steps before the alarm sounds.
Everyone's up. Pilot helmets are thrown on, suits rechecked. You're the closest to the door, so you throw open the hangar control.
"All pilots, scramble! We are under attack! Multiple unknown bogeys confirmed! All pilots - "
As the hangar door opens, you see the hangars opposite you explode.
"Guess we're having that air patrol after all, Gramps!" you holler, slamming your canopy down and starting your fighter jet. Simultaneously, you flick on the radio.
[X] [SQUADRON] Write-in, subject to veto
"Requesting clearance to taxi from air control!" you shout.
"Granted, now just take off already! We're facing down at least twenty aircraft!" ATC yells back.
Well, now, you had expectations on you, didn't you?
You taxi onto the runway, watching your wingmates in your rear-view mirror. Your heart nearly stops when a bomb drops on your hangar just as Damian's pulling out. Thankfully, it's a dud, and now all you have to do is dodge the potholes the missile craters have punched into the runway. Just.
You grip the throttle and open it up.
[] [CALLSIGN] Write-in, subject to veto.
"Taking off!"
i need to relearn how to write dogfights again for something haha...
Project Wingman/Ace Combat/Top Gun/Top Gun: Maverick inspired
You hate rainy days.
You especially hate monsoon days, when the sky drops half the ocean on you.
Actually, you really hate monsoon season, when it's hot and muggy and turns your daily walk into a daily swim.
This is deeply unfortunate, because you live in a place where monsoon season is half the year.
[] [ORIGIN] National Defense Force
Ah well. It's your home, what can you do?
[] [ORIGIN] Allied Detachment
Just six more months in this jungle hellhole, and then you can finally go home.
Today it's really pouring, which is something. You think you can see the hangar frame start to sway under the weight of all the rain sloughing down. The sky is so dark that the shitty bulbs are on at noon, and you still can't see for shit out there. Damn rain's keeping you from your walk, and you can't see for shit.
"Nice weather, eh?" Damian says, tossing another dart at his dartboard.
Damian 'Wings' O'Neilly. Tall, nearly gangly, black haired black-eyed pale-skinned son of a gun. He'd be your favorite wingmate in this wing of four, except for the other two wingmates in front of him; but at least he's got a sense of humor about it. He earned his callsign by managing to land a plane in basic so badly both wings were completely totaled, and yet he survived without even a scratch. Lucky devil, that one, and that's why you all put up with his regular comedy.
"Shut the fuck up," you say. You've had this conversation more times than you can count. "This much rain's bad news for us too, you know."
"Don't remind me," Joaquin drawls, sprawled out over the half empty crate of 'entertainment', under the ceiling's highest point. "And no one say a damn thing, you hear me?"
Joaquin 'Valley' Ramirez. A woman on the shorter side ("Average for my people!" she shouts), brown and trying to bleach her rebellious hair away from her brown roots. Your second favorite wingman, since she scammed you over a game of poker a week back; always a card shark, in the air and in the ground. Didn't save her that one time, though, when the valley of this shitty-ass ceiling on this hangar finally gave out and soaked her in monsoon rains. No one needs to say anything about the monsoon rains; that's just what 'Valley' means to you all now.
"Kid's right, this monsoon is trouble for us," Terry says, polishing his plane's ladder. "Rumor has it that we're the ones who're on combat patrol next."
Teruyoshi 'Gramps' Miura. Your new favorite wingmate, after all of your other wingmates disqualified themselves. Silver-haired, the man looks twenty years older than his actual age of twenty-five; you've seen fifty year olds who look younger than he does. People constantly think he's older and more important than he actually is, and he doesn't bother correcting them. That's how you get all the latest rumors, at least, so Gramps is good for you, personally. Though if you can get ahold of evidence of his rebellious youth phase...
Ah well.
"Seriously? In this weather?" Joaquin grumbles.
"Tell me about it," you say, staring out of the window. You think you see a flash of movement. Something like -
Your eyes widen. You run away from the door and scramble for your pilot's gear.
You make it three steps before the alarm sounds.
Everyone's up. Pilot helmets are thrown on, suits rechecked. You're the closest to the door, so you throw open the hangar control.
"All pilots, scramble! We are under attack! Multiple unknown bogeys confirmed! All pilots - "
As the hangar door opens, you see the hangars opposite you explode.
"Guess we're having that air patrol after all, Gramps!" you holler, slamming your canopy down and starting your fighter jet. Simultaneously, you flick on the radio.
[X] [SQUADRON] Write-in, subject to veto
"Requesting clearance to taxi from air control!" you shout.
"Granted, now just take off already! We're facing down at least twenty aircraft!" ATC yells back.
Well, now, you had expectations on you, didn't you?
You taxi onto the runway, watching your wingmates in your rear-view mirror. Your heart nearly stops when a bomb drops on your hangar just as Damian's pulling out. Thankfully, it's a dud, and now all you have to do is dodge the potholes the missile craters have punched into the runway. Just.
You grip the throttle and open it up.
[] [CALLSIGN] Write-in, subject to veto.
"Taking off!"
i need to relearn how to write dogfights again for something haha...
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] [ORIGIN] National Defense Force
[X] [SQUADRON] Rhino
[X] [CALLSIGN] Rotor (Ran Off The Only Runway)
[X] [SQUADRON] Rhino
[X] [CALLSIGN] Rotor (Ran Off The Only Runway)
THatWhichWillBe
The Squiddly One
- Location
- In The Darkened Deep
[X] [ORIGIN] Allied Detachment
[X] [SQUADRON] Countdown
[X] [CALLSIGN] Wyrm
[X] [SQUADRON] Countdown
[X] [CALLSIGN] Wyrm
- Location
- Titan
[X] [ORIGIN] Allied Detachment
[X] [SQUADRON] Machine
[X] [CALLSIGN] Rotor (Ran Off The Only Runway)
[X] [SQUADRON] Machine
[X] [CALLSIGN] Rotor (Ran Off The Only Runway)
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
I should note that I went for "Rhino" for the Squadron as something that's one-syllable, easy/distinctive to say, and hard to mistake for other words or commands.
I admittedly googled for Pilot Callsigns and picked "Rotor" as one that was, while not crass (boy did I find some great ones there), was still not flattering, but was also, again, quick and easy to say.
Remember, callsigns are not really supposed to be "cool", they're typically given by your squadronmates. Just look at the examples in the opening post; none of those are really "cool" or "flattering" names or reasons.
I admittedly googled for Pilot Callsigns and picked "Rotor" as one that was, while not crass (boy did I find some great ones there), was still not flattering, but was also, again, quick and easy to say.
Remember, callsigns are not really supposed to be "cool", they're typically given by your squadronmates. Just look at the examples in the opening post; none of those are really "cool" or "flattering" names or reasons.
[X] [ORIGIN] National Defense Force
[X] [SQUADRON] Rhino
[X] [CALLSIGN] Rotor (Ran Off The Only Runway)
[X] [SQUADRON] Rhino
[X] [CALLSIGN] Rotor (Ran Off The Only Runway)
- Location
- USA
[x] [ORIGIN] National Defense Force
[x] [SQUADRON] Wardog
[x] [CALLSIGN] Total (You insist it's spelled "Toto", but it's really "Total," for the time you over-stressed your ride and turned it into a total, expensive write-off.)
[x] [SQUADRON] Wardog
[x] [CALLSIGN] Total (You insist it's spelled "Toto", but it's really "Total," for the time you over-stressed your ride and turned it into a total, expensive write-off.)
TAKEOFF 0.2
- Location
- Somewhere over the rainbow
[X] [ORIGIN] National Defense Force
[X] [SQUADRON] Rhino
[X] [CALLSIGN] Rotor
Driving rain, heavy crosswind, light chance of falling bombs. Twenty hostile aircraft at least, and your allies were slow to get out of bed as usual.
"Try not to run off this runway, Rotor, we don't have a second one!" Wings reminds you. Right, that was why he was your least favorite wingmate.
But by now you're practiced enough to do this in your sleep.
Or in your current case, as new holes are being blown into a rain-slicked runway while brutal winds try to grab your airframe and throw it into the ground.
You've heard that the latest fifth generation fighters from your 'ally' Ebrana are so easy to fly they'll take off at a button press - but you, ass-end mosquito bait of an ass-end mosquito bait of a country, do not get that luxury. You manually adjust the flaps on your plane and wrench the stick and throttle of your bucket of bolts calling itself a fourth generation fighter as you trundle down the runway.
Your right engine flickers again, and you slam the ignition switch again to keep it from giving out on you.
"Jet engines were never meant to breathe water," Gramps mournfully says.
"Time to learn, then," you quip, as your engines finally start ramping up and pushing you back into your seat.
One last bump that rattles your teeth, and your plane lifts off from the runway. Gramps, Valley, and Wings follow you up shortly, as you all race for five thousand. Right now if you don't get to five thousand you'll be sitting ducks.
Your missile lock warning starts blaring immediately.
"We've been spiked on radar, altitude 3000, heading 3-5-0," you say, much more coolly than you feel. "Rhino squadron," you continue, yanking on your stick, "jink right."
Your missile lock warning turns into an alarm blare. Missiles streak off the approaching squadron, and you watch as they approach. They're not adjusting enough to keep up with your new heading, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
"Enemy bogeys diving for speed, altitude about 6000," Gramps calmly follows up. "Rhino Squadron," you order, "high-low bounce."
You and Gramps abruptly tilt your plane up even higher. Your speed drops dangerously low, as you approach the maximum stall angle with all the engine output you can pour in. Your engineer's gonna hate you for this, if you're both alive to talk about it. You keep your plane on its heading through what feels like sheer muscle power. "Tower, permission to engage unknown bogeys?"
[] [MOTIVE] Contested Region
Oswuydan and Yuskein both lay claim to a border region, filled with ethnic tensions and all kinds of natural resources.
[] [MOTIVE] Unification Claim
Oswuydan was once a region of Yuskein, and Yuskein's never really acknowledged Oswuydan's independence.
[] [MOTIVE] Mistimed Military Intervention
Tensions have always been bad in the Oswuydan's military, and Yuskein's got a favored faction. Too bad they jumped the gun early.
"Master Arm on," you radio, disengaging your weapons lock. Your wingmates echo your report, and you watch as your altitude finally climbs over 8000, even as your speed nearly falls out of three digits. As your nose pitches down, the lack of missile tone tells you what your eyes can finally see over the lip of your cockpit. The fourth-generation Yuskein bogeys have tilted down to jump your wingmates Wings and Valley. Another set of two missiles leaps off the wings of the leading elements.
"Crossing over," Wings radios, tilting right as Valley tilts left. Their noses move in eerie, long-practiced synchrony, through the driving rain.
"Perfect," Gramps radioes. "All those practices were good for something, eh?"
"Nah, I was born this way," Wings casually says, as you force your plane's nose down just a little bit more...
Your radar shifts, a long high tone. You have a radar lock.
"Fox 2, Fox 2," you say, firing your missile. Your missile streak is joined by Gramps' own fire, and you watch as Gramps targets the second plane in the formation, but yours targets the one to the rear of the formation. After all, you have a plan.
"Going in for guns," you radio.
The flaps scream and your arms strain as rain like bullets smashes against your windshield.
But your sights are aligned with the leading plane, who doesn't yet realize that here in Oswuydan, the jungles are thick and the stormclouds are heavy.
Your autocannon spits out bullets like rain, and in the grips of the monsoon, the lead Yuskein fighter drowns in a flood of bullets.
"Chalk up two more," you say, watching your other missile slam into the rear element after your missiles ignored their flares. Stroke of luck, that.
The four of you rapidly circle the only remaining fighter in the Yuskein squadron, and put it out of your misery.
[] [ENGAGE] Mysterious Squadron
Your radar's picking up an intermittent squadron of fighter sized contacts at altitude 15000. You get the feeling you don't want to see what it is that they're waiting for.
[] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
Bison and Hippo Squadrons are in the air, but they can't clear out the bombers safely unless someone deals with the fighter cover flying at 12000.
[] [ENGAGE] Bombers
On the other hand, the threat in the air right now is the bombers, altitude 12000. Take that out, and the fighters are just going to have to go home, in hostile airspace.
[X] [SQUADRON] Rhino
[X] [CALLSIGN] Rotor
Driving rain, heavy crosswind, light chance of falling bombs. Twenty hostile aircraft at least, and your allies were slow to get out of bed as usual.
"Try not to run off this runway, Rotor, we don't have a second one!" Wings reminds you. Right, that was why he was your least favorite wingmate.
But by now you're practiced enough to do this in your sleep.
Or in your current case, as new holes are being blown into a rain-slicked runway while brutal winds try to grab your airframe and throw it into the ground.
You've heard that the latest fifth generation fighters from your 'ally' Ebrana are so easy to fly they'll take off at a button press - but you, ass-end mosquito bait of an ass-end mosquito bait of a country, do not get that luxury. You manually adjust the flaps on your plane and wrench the stick and throttle of your bucket of bolts calling itself a fourth generation fighter as you trundle down the runway.
Your right engine flickers again, and you slam the ignition switch again to keep it from giving out on you.
"Jet engines were never meant to breathe water," Gramps mournfully says.
"Time to learn, then," you quip, as your engines finally start ramping up and pushing you back into your seat.
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Rhino Squadron, you are clear for takeoff.>>
God willing, you mutter.<<Rhino Squadron, you are clear for takeoff.>>
One last bump that rattles your teeth, and your plane lifts off from the runway. Gramps, Valley, and Wings follow you up shortly, as you all race for five thousand. Right now if you don't get to five thousand you'll be sitting ducks.
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Now identifying twelve bombers in three squadrons, escorted by four fighters a squadron, altitude 12000>>
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<One more squadron is in the airspace, altitude 7000, heading 3-3-0 and dropping - Rhino Squadron, they're headed for you!>>
You grimaced. You were only at altitude 3000, and low speed, to boot!<<Now identifying twelve bombers in three squadrons, escorted by four fighters a squadron, altitude 12000>>
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<One more squadron is in the airspace, altitude 7000, heading 3-3-0 and dropping - Rhino Squadron, they're headed for you!>>
Your missile lock warning starts blaring immediately.
"We've been spiked on radar, altitude 3000, heading 3-5-0," you say, much more coolly than you feel. "Rhino squadron," you continue, yanking on your stick, "jink right."
Your missile lock warning turns into an alarm blare. Missiles streak off the approaching squadron, and you watch as they approach. They're not adjusting enough to keep up with your new heading, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
"Enemy bogeys diving for speed, altitude about 6000," Gramps calmly follows up. "Rhino Squadron," you order, "high-low bounce."
You and Gramps abruptly tilt your plane up even higher. Your speed drops dangerously low, as you approach the maximum stall angle with all the engine output you can pour in. Your engineer's gonna hate you for this, if you're both alive to talk about it. You keep your plane on its heading through what feels like sheer muscle power. "Tower, permission to engage unknown bogeys?"
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Bogeys ID'ed as Yuskein fighters. As of ten minutes ago, we are at a formal state of war with Yuskein.>>
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<All forces, you are free to engage. Inshallah, we'll all see the end of today.>>
So it's finally happening. Tensions were always high - an airspace violation here, a diplomatic snub there, and a ...<<Bogeys ID'ed as Yuskein fighters. As of ten minutes ago, we are at a formal state of war with Yuskein.>>
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<All forces, you are free to engage. Inshallah, we'll all see the end of today.>>
[] [MOTIVE] Contested Region
Oswuydan and Yuskein both lay claim to a border region, filled with ethnic tensions and all kinds of natural resources.
[] [MOTIVE] Unification Claim
Oswuydan was once a region of Yuskein, and Yuskein's never really acknowledged Oswuydan's independence.
[] [MOTIVE] Mistimed Military Intervention
Tensions have always been bad in the Oswuydan's military, and Yuskein's got a favored faction. Too bad they jumped the gun early.
"Master Arm on," you radio, disengaging your weapons lock. Your wingmates echo your report, and you watch as your altitude finally climbs over 8000, even as your speed nearly falls out of three digits. As your nose pitches down, the lack of missile tone tells you what your eyes can finally see over the lip of your cockpit. The fourth-generation Yuskein bogeys have tilted down to jump your wingmates Wings and Valley. Another set of two missiles leaps off the wings of the leading elements.
"Crossing over," Wings radios, tilting right as Valley tilts left. Their noses move in eerie, long-practiced synchrony, through the driving rain.
"Perfect," Gramps radioes. "All those practices were good for something, eh?"
"Nah, I was born this way," Wings casually says, as you force your plane's nose down just a little bit more...
Your radar shifts, a long high tone. You have a radar lock.
"Fox 2, Fox 2," you say, firing your missile. Your missile streak is joined by Gramps' own fire, and you watch as Gramps targets the second plane in the formation, but yours targets the one to the rear of the formation. After all, you have a plan.
"Going in for guns," you radio.
The flaps scream and your arms strain as rain like bullets smashes against your windshield.
But your sights are aligned with the leading plane, who doesn't yet realize that here in Oswuydan, the jungles are thick and the stormclouds are heavy.
Your autocannon spits out bullets like rain, and in the grips of the monsoon, the lead Yuskein fighter drowns in a flood of bullets.
"Chalk up two more," you say, watching your other missile slam into the rear element after your missiles ignored their flares. Stroke of luck, that.
The four of you rapidly circle the only remaining fighter in the Yuskein squadron, and put it out of your misery.
Bison Squadron
<<Damn, Rhino Squadron really lives up to its reputation! Two passes, and an entire squadron got destroyed!>>
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Don't get distracted now, there's still plenty more Yuskein fighters in the air!>>
<<Damn, Rhino Squadron really lives up to its reputation! Two passes, and an entire squadron got destroyed!>>
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Don't get distracted now, there's still plenty more Yuskein fighters in the air!>>
[] [ENGAGE] Mysterious Squadron
Your radar's picking up an intermittent squadron of fighter sized contacts at altitude 15000. You get the feeling you don't want to see what it is that they're waiting for.
[] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
Bison and Hippo Squadrons are in the air, but they can't clear out the bombers safely unless someone deals with the fighter cover flying at 12000.
[] [ENGAGE] Bombers
On the other hand, the threat in the air right now is the bombers, altitude 12000. Take that out, and the fighters are just going to have to go home, in hostile airspace.
Last edited:
- Location
- USA
[x] [MOTIVE] Contested Region
[x] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
[x] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
[X] [MOTIVE] Unification Claim
[X] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
[X] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] [MOTIVE] Unification Claim
[X] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
[X] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
[X] [MOTIVE] Unification Claim
[X] [ENGAGE] Mysterious Squadron
I think the intelligent, military move is to deal with the fighter escorts. However, the mysterious squadron is really fucking cool and if they're just observing I don't want to let them get away.
On the other hand, if this is Strangereal rules (I think it might be given "radar lock" and "fox two"), then there's nothing to worry about because they're probably all cool as fuck and will eventually show back up at the most dramatic moment possible. One way or the other, I can't possibly lose and it'll be dope.
[X] [ENGAGE] Mysterious Squadron
I think the intelligent, military move is to deal with the fighter escorts. However, the mysterious squadron is really fucking cool and if they're just observing I don't want to let them get away.
On the other hand, if this is Strangereal rules (I think it might be given "radar lock" and "fox two"), then there's nothing to worry about because they're probably all cool as fuck and will eventually show back up at the most dramatic moment possible. One way or the other, I can't possibly lose and it'll be dope.
- Location
- Titan
[X] [MOTIVE] Unification Claim
[X] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
[X] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
TAKEOFF 0.3
- Location
- Somewhere over the rainbow
[X] [MOTIVE] Unification Claim
[X] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
You survey the dark and stormy skies. Your eyes idly flicker over to the mysterious squadron in the air, but if Yuskein's going for broke now, this is absolutely not the time to gloryhound. Especially as one of the leading fighter pilot squadrons, you were going to have assume some of the responsibility of being better.
You turn towards the fighter and bomber cluster, wrenching your uncooperative fighter up towards the cloud barrier.
"Rhino Squadron," you radio, "we are going after the fighter escorts!"
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Rhino Squadron, understood! All forces, concentrate on those bombers! Rhino Squadron will cover you!"
"Sheesh, talk to me about an unwanted promotion!" Wings good-naturedly grouses. "Now we're assigned to looking after the nuggets, too?"
"That's because we're experienced," Gramps says back.
"Still don't have to like it," Joaquin throws in. "I count, what, eight fighters?"
"Wasn't aware this was a democracy," you sarcastically bite. Maybe that'd bother Wings specifically, but if it did you could always talk it out in the locker room afterwards. "If I say we're going, we're going. Besides, you see any other squadrons in the air you'd trust with this job?"
You quickly flipped through the squadrons that managed to sortie. Bison was a fairly fresh air unit, with only a few years under their belt, and that made them second most senior. They were timid flyers, and you know that you're the better pilots by far. Which is why it's such a problem that they were the next best by a long shot. Gazelle was fresh and could barely turn without flying out of formation. You scan through your allied formations and realize with some amount of shock even Elephant's been sortied, and you realize how dire your current situation must be.
"Besides," you drop, sounding far more confident than you feel, "do you want to leave this up to Lamb Squadron?"
There's dead silence, as you begin closing the distance to the first wave of bombers. Contacts drop in and out of your radar, as it tries to adapt to the lightning and the thunder and the ocean being dropped on you.
"Shit, it's that bad?" Wings finally says.
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Lamb 2's in the air, but the loose fighter squadron's wreaking havoc on them. Hopefully Bison can get over there, because otherwise...>>
"Roger that," you say. You mark the two fighters out front for you and Gramps, and mark the fighters flying top cover for your Valley and Wings. Both contacts are flickering through the rain and the thunder - but you figure that Yuskein's jet fighters can't be that much better, so if your radar is on the fritz and creating phantom flights, theirs must be too.
Besides, you grimly note, they might not have seen you.
Well, nothing to it. They were on the other side of the cloud bank, and you'd fly right under their noses in only a few seconds.
"Gramps," you grunt. "Immelman - "
"Now," he says, and the two of you sharply bank up. The fighters in front clearly weren't expecting you in the slightest, as you emerge from the lowest level of thunderstorm clouds right on their tails. The two fourth generation fighters in front of you promptly freak out, and fly straight forward in a desperate bid to obey thieir primal instincts to flee.
"This is why we train," Gramps ruefully remarks, as the two of you confirm your lock-on and let two more missiles fly. Gramps' missile blows the fighter right out of the sky, while your own forces black smoke and a catastrophic loss in engine power. Behind you, the top cover doesn't seem to have realized you've rammed two missiles up their comrade's tailpipes, which gives you the chance to run a few cannon bullets along the lead fighter's wing.
"Two down, six to go," Gramps says, as the two of you dip back into the clouds. Your arms are starting to complain about the stress of piloting through a monsoon, but it's worth it to get the advantage of surprise.
Soon after, you see two pinpricks of light flash, and an intermittent radio.
"We g - ours!" Valley radios, cut up by the interference. You send the message along to Tower Control, though, that the first wave of bombers now has no more air escort. "Now come down, and prepare for the second wave!" Gramps radioes.
So through the driving rain, and the cries in the radio as Bison Squadron finally stops their fighter squadron from wreaking havoc on your own undertrained rookies, you pull in for the second wave of fighters. The rain continues to wreak havoc, exhausting you mind and body to keep your plane on the right heading and flying towards your target. And unfortunately, the second wave of escort fighters is much more on the ball - you get a sudden radar warning that immediately cuts off from interference, but you know better than to maintain your current position.
The squadron breaks the cloud cover in-between two tall thundercloud stacks, and you see two wings of fighters, one acting on its own initiative. If you focus on the pair which knows you're there, you might end up in a furball, everything dependent on each other's skill. If you go for the inattentive bunch, you'll almost certainly cause a squadron-sized turn fight.
You feel how tired your arms are, and that picks the attentive bunch for you.
"Rhino Squadron, follow my lead," you confidently radio, pulling your own nose in the direction of the leading two jets. Missiles streak of the lead fighter's wings, but you pop flares and aggressively nose your fighter down. The missile streaks over you, going well wide, but now there's absolutely no chance you'll get good tone without turning all the way around.
So you don't bother waiting. You pull your flaps aggressively and hit the brakes so hard your stall warning comes on, but your piloting finds a firing solution. Your cannon bullets shake the nose badly, but it ripsaws through the lead fighter's wing, and in your rearview mirror you watch it rapidly spiral out of control. Right now, though, you bank your plane over gently as you ramp up the throttle, and hopefully you won't stall. As your plane's exposed underbelly flips up, you hear Valley radio that the top cover's noticed you.
Okay. You check your chaff and flares. One left.
You throw open the throttle on your way down. Behind you, your missile alert screams at you, the high fighters barely waiting a moment until they could get their lock-on chance. You look down below you, and see the lead fighter's hapless friend coming up for a spiral upwards.
You change your target lock, and watch the missile streak behind you. You'll have to depend on your own sense of timing for this.
Closer... ease off the throttle...
Closer... tilt the wings slightly...
Now!
You hit the chaff and flares at the same time as you haul back on your stick and slam on the brakes. Your plane abruptly turns in midair, shooting into a descending barrel roll at a forty degree angle from your old flight path. From the missile's perspective, you must have done magic.
From your perspective, you've just manuevered yourself right onto the tail of the second fighter of the element. Missiles are no good in this turn fight - you continue holding back on the brakes as you turn into their radius, and pull the cannon trigger. The shots fly wide at first, shaken by the winds and the rain - but you tighten up, and there it is, the bullets sparking against the engines and igniting something in the fuel. The plane goes up in a fireball, and you're safe for now.
"Not bad, Rhino Squadron," you say, trying to play your three kills off cool. You've majorly stressed your wings and control surfaces, but so long as you've survived you don't care too much about that. "Did we get them all?"
"Yeah, we got 'em all. The bombers should turn back, or the nuggets will get some free kills!" Gramps laughs.
"You sure you're good to land though, Rotor? Or are we gonna get the chance to watch you earn your tacname again?" Wings needles.
"Aw shut up," you casually say. "Three - one - or wait, did Valley get the other kill too?"
"I did, actually - Wings out here was too busy catching the wind!" Valley laughs.
This sortie's gone well. Too well.
Pick one thing that goes wrong.
[] Yuskein's initial advances are much worse than expected.
Your next battle will force you to be challenge much worse odds.
[] The mysterious squadron descends on you.
Your squadrons fighters will take massive damge, and will enter the next battle with a reserve fighter, or a ground attacker.
[] Ebranan forces and trainers abruptly pull out.
Your superpower ally Ebrana will initially withdraw their support.
[X] [ENGAGE] Fighter Escort
You survey the dark and stormy skies. Your eyes idly flicker over to the mysterious squadron in the air, but if Yuskein's going for broke now, this is absolutely not the time to gloryhound. Especially as one of the leading fighter pilot squadrons, you were going to have assume some of the responsibility of being better.
You turn towards the fighter and bomber cluster, wrenching your uncooperative fighter up towards the cloud barrier.
"Rhino Squadron," you radio, "we are going after the fighter escorts!"
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Rhino Squadron, understood! All forces, concentrate on those bombers! Rhino Squadron will cover you!"
"Sheesh, talk to me about an unwanted promotion!" Wings good-naturedly grouses. "Now we're assigned to looking after the nuggets, too?"
"That's because we're experienced," Gramps says back.
"Still don't have to like it," Joaquin throws in. "I count, what, eight fighters?"
"Wasn't aware this was a democracy," you sarcastically bite. Maybe that'd bother Wings specifically, but if it did you could always talk it out in the locker room afterwards. "If I say we're going, we're going. Besides, you see any other squadrons in the air you'd trust with this job?"
You quickly flipped through the squadrons that managed to sortie. Bison was a fairly fresh air unit, with only a few years under their belt, and that made them second most senior. They were timid flyers, and you know that you're the better pilots by far. Which is why it's such a problem that they were the next best by a long shot. Gazelle was fresh and could barely turn without flying out of formation. You scan through your allied formations and realize with some amount of shock even Elephant's been sortied, and you realize how dire your current situation must be.
"Besides," you drop, sounding far more confident than you feel, "do you want to leave this up to Lamb Squadron?"
There's dead silence, as you begin closing the distance to the first wave of bombers. Contacts drop in and out of your radar, as it tries to adapt to the lightning and the thunder and the ocean being dropped on you.
"Shit, it's that bad?" Wings finally says.
Oswuydan Tower Control
<<Lamb 2's in the air, but the loose fighter squadron's wreaking havoc on them. Hopefully Bison can get over there, because otherwise...>>
"Roger that," you say. You mark the two fighters out front for you and Gramps, and mark the fighters flying top cover for your Valley and Wings. Both contacts are flickering through the rain and the thunder - but you figure that Yuskein's jet fighters can't be that much better, so if your radar is on the fritz and creating phantom flights, theirs must be too.
Besides, you grimly note, they might not have seen you.
Well, nothing to it. They were on the other side of the cloud bank, and you'd fly right under their noses in only a few seconds.
"Gramps," you grunt. "Immelman - "
"Now," he says, and the two of you sharply bank up. The fighters in front clearly weren't expecting you in the slightest, as you emerge from the lowest level of thunderstorm clouds right on their tails. The two fourth generation fighters in front of you promptly freak out, and fly straight forward in a desperate bid to obey thieir primal instincts to flee.
"This is why we train," Gramps ruefully remarks, as the two of you confirm your lock-on and let two more missiles fly. Gramps' missile blows the fighter right out of the sky, while your own forces black smoke and a catastrophic loss in engine power. Behind you, the top cover doesn't seem to have realized you've rammed two missiles up their comrade's tailpipes, which gives you the chance to run a few cannon bullets along the lead fighter's wing.
"Two down, six to go," Gramps says, as the two of you dip back into the clouds. Your arms are starting to complain about the stress of piloting through a monsoon, but it's worth it to get the advantage of surprise.
Soon after, you see two pinpricks of light flash, and an intermittent radio.
"We g - ours!" Valley radios, cut up by the interference. You send the message along to Tower Control, though, that the first wave of bombers now has no more air escort. "Now come down, and prepare for the second wave!" Gramps radioes.
So through the driving rain, and the cries in the radio as Bison Squadron finally stops their fighter squadron from wreaking havoc on your own undertrained rookies, you pull in for the second wave of fighters. The rain continues to wreak havoc, exhausting you mind and body to keep your plane on the right heading and flying towards your target. And unfortunately, the second wave of escort fighters is much more on the ball - you get a sudden radar warning that immediately cuts off from interference, but you know better than to maintain your current position.
The squadron breaks the cloud cover in-between two tall thundercloud stacks, and you see two wings of fighters, one acting on its own initiative. If you focus on the pair which knows you're there, you might end up in a furball, everything dependent on each other's skill. If you go for the inattentive bunch, you'll almost certainly cause a squadron-sized turn fight.
You feel how tired your arms are, and that picks the attentive bunch for you.
"Rhino Squadron, follow my lead," you confidently radio, pulling your own nose in the direction of the leading two jets. Missiles streak of the lead fighter's wings, but you pop flares and aggressively nose your fighter down. The missile streaks over you, going well wide, but now there's absolutely no chance you'll get good tone without turning all the way around.
So you don't bother waiting. You pull your flaps aggressively and hit the brakes so hard your stall warning comes on, but your piloting finds a firing solution. Your cannon bullets shake the nose badly, but it ripsaws through the lead fighter's wing, and in your rearview mirror you watch it rapidly spiral out of control. Right now, though, you bank your plane over gently as you ramp up the throttle, and hopefully you won't stall. As your plane's exposed underbelly flips up, you hear Valley radio that the top cover's noticed you.
Okay. You check your chaff and flares. One left.
You throw open the throttle on your way down. Behind you, your missile alert screams at you, the high fighters barely waiting a moment until they could get their lock-on chance. You look down below you, and see the lead fighter's hapless friend coming up for a spiral upwards.
You change your target lock, and watch the missile streak behind you. You'll have to depend on your own sense of timing for this.
Closer... ease off the throttle...
Closer... tilt the wings slightly...
Now!
You hit the chaff and flares at the same time as you haul back on your stick and slam on the brakes. Your plane abruptly turns in midair, shooting into a descending barrel roll at a forty degree angle from your old flight path. From the missile's perspective, you must have done magic.
From your perspective, you've just manuevered yourself right onto the tail of the second fighter of the element. Missiles are no good in this turn fight - you continue holding back on the brakes as you turn into their radius, and pull the cannon trigger. The shots fly wide at first, shaken by the winds and the rain - but you tighten up, and there it is, the bullets sparking against the engines and igniting something in the fuel. The plane goes up in a fireball, and you're safe for now.
"Not bad, Rhino Squadron," you say, trying to play your three kills off cool. You've majorly stressed your wings and control surfaces, but so long as you've survived you don't care too much about that. "Did we get them all?"
"Yeah, we got 'em all. The bombers should turn back, or the nuggets will get some free kills!" Gramps laughs.
"You sure you're good to land though, Rotor? Or are we gonna get the chance to watch you earn your tacname again?" Wings needles.
"Aw shut up," you casually say. "Three - one - or wait, did Valley get the other kill too?"
"I did, actually - Wings out here was too busy catching the wind!" Valley laughs.
This sortie's gone well. Too well.
Pick one thing that goes wrong.
[] Yuskein's initial advances are much worse than expected.
Your next battle will force you to be challenge much worse odds.
[] The mysterious squadron descends on you.
Your squadrons fighters will take massive damge, and will enter the next battle with a reserve fighter, or a ground attacker.
[] Ebranan forces and trainers abruptly pull out.
Your superpower ally Ebrana will initially withdraw their support.
[X] The mysterious squadron descends on you.
Best to see what they are now.
Best to see what they are now.