President Reagan Dead
Washington, DC (CNN) -April 3rd, 1986
The President was pronounced dead...
Washington, DC (CNN) -April 3rd, 1986
The President was pronounced dead...
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Prelude 1
- Location
- 'Murica
President Reagan Dead
Washington, DC (CNN) -April 3rd, 1986
The President was pronounced dead today at 4:37 in the morning, following complications from yesterday's tragedy. Speaker of the House Tip O'Neill called for a nation-wide day of mourning to honor the fallen leader, and promises to uphold his legacy until the next election, though some conservatives doubt he will match the fallen President's tenacity.
—|—|—
"This war is never going to end." The Jordanian ambassador spat each word out through grit teeth. The newspaper in his hands was too badly mauled to read, even if one could somehow pry it from his clenched fists. Which didn't matter, as everyone in the room knew what he was speaking of.
The Iran-Iraq war was going into its seventh year, and still there was no end in sight to the bloodshed. Saddam's thugs had been audacious at first. Audacious, and luckier than god's own fools. They'd pushed deep into Iran, as deep as a hundred miles at some points.
That'd been seven years ago. For more than half a decade, the lines had stabilized and the front had turned to a blood-soaked hell that made Verdun, Passchendaele, and the Somme look tame.
"It's not a war." Unlike his Jordanian counterpart, the Israeli ambassador was cold and still as ice. Only the keenest observer would notice the fury burning behind his placid brown eyes. He'd done his time in the IDF, looked on the ugly mask of war square in the eyes back in '73. It was hell, yes, but not like this.
War had rules. War had purpose.
"It's a slaughter." There was no love lost between the fledgling Jewish state and their many Arab neighbors. But the hell in the trenches was a fate no man—Jew or Arab—deserved.
"Mmm," the Jordanian hurled the balled-up newspaper carcass into a wastebin. "They're using gas now."
"That won't change anything." The war might look like World War One. But while the tactics hadn't changed, technology had. Modern NBC gear reduced the threat of gas to a sliver of its former deathly specter. Against troops. Against Civilians, the death toll was catastrophic.
The Israeli couldn't imagine a weapon more singularly useful for killing innocents. Millions of his people had fallen to gas once, the thought of anyone even Arabs suffering the same made his blood boil.
"It will," said the Jordanian. "If Saddam gets away with it, who'll be next."
"The Americans—"
"Won't lift a finger." The Jordanian scowled again. "Not for the Iranians. The President won't send young Americans to die for a people who held them prisoner. Would you?"
The Israeli shrugged. "No," he said quietly.
For a long time, the two men were silent, staring intently at the same wall as each slowly pondered the imponderable.
"This cannot stand," said the Jordanian. Officially, there was no love lost between the people of Israel and the King of Jordan. Unofficially, King Hussein had been at least a sane and stable leader. A man who, if nothing else, recognized the grave danger letting chemical weapons go unanswered posed.
"Your pilots have proven…" the Jordanian trailed off, his face contorting as the true weight of the words he'd been pondering hit him. "most… capable."
The Israeli blinked. It was one thing to mount a deliberately half-hearted invasion. But, he couldn't mean… "You're not…"
"You are a Jew, and I despise you," said the Jordanian. "But," he slowly offered his hand. "You do not drop chemical bombs on children."
—|—|—
"Well…" Colonel Mordechai Laskov glanced off his Viper's stubby wing at the fighter pulling up off his wing. It was another F-16, but one wearing the drab gray colors and proud four-color roundel of the Jordanian Air force. "This is different."
"Eagle Team," A voice crackled over the radio. Gruffly accented but still intelligible, it was distinctly Arab. "This is Cobra team. Welcome to Jordan."
Laskov kept the Jordanian Viper in the corner of his eye. It was flying right along side his jet, too close and at too oblique an angle to get a missile lock, but that didn't keep him from nervously glancing at his RWR every half-heartbeat. "Copy, Cobra Team. Good to be invited this time."
The Arab laughed, his Viper dipping its wing at the Israeli plane. "Of course, Eagle-Lead." A moment later, he answered the question Laskov had been pondering ever since his jets went wheels-up. *"Don't worry, Eagle team. My pilots are the best in the kingdom. If they so much as spike you, they'll answer to my father."
"Your father, Cobra-lead?" Laskov eased his jet a little lower and shot a sideways glance at the Jordanian Viper off his bomb-laden wing. "Someone I'd know?"
Cobra-lead just laughed.
For another few minutes, the planes flew over the relative safety of Jordanian airspace—Laskov never thought he'd hear himself think that. Bomb-laden Vipers from the IAF cruised in low, their engines just below blower. Up above Eagles strapped with missiles and flow by the best dog fighters Israel had to offer flew top cover, mostly to watch for Iraqi MiGs, but… also to be ready to pounce should the Jordanians open fire.
The Jordanian jets, meanwhile, cruised happily alongside the Israeli strike package, apparently trusting in their country's IADS to protect them against Jewish subterfuge. Or maybe… just maybe they trusted their nominal sworn enemies.
"Coming up on the border." Cobra-Lead's voice had lost its former mirth. Now the Jordanian spoke with stone-cold focus. Their target was a chemical weapons facility less than two hundred miles from Baghdad. One Iranian Phantoms had been trying to knock out for two years.
"Copy," said Laskov, sliding his Viper's throttle past its stop into afterburner. A tongue of flame roared from the Pratt & Whittney F-100 turbofan, muscling the heavily-laden jet past the sound barrier with a tremendous crack.
"Foxbats rising to meet us," breathed Cobra-lead. Without the need to cruise all the way from Israel towing tons of bombs, the Jordanian Vipers were almost slick. Only an arsenal of slender air-to-air missiles disturbed their aerodynamics. "I tally… four. No-six."
"We got 'em." Cipher-lead spoke for the first time since forming up over Tel Aviv. Above the Vipers, Cipher team's Eagles poured on the blowers, shoving past even the afterburning Vipers in a race to beat the MiGs to their firing point.
The two squadrons were over two-hundred-fifty miles away, but roaring towards each other at full burner, they'd be at the merge in less than four minutes.
"More MiGs," said Cobra-Lead. "Fulcrums swinging around from the North."
"Yeah, I see them," said Laskov. The Fulcrums were the best jets Saddam had, bare-none. Laskov had hoped they'd be too busy jousting with Iranian tomcats to divert to the chemical facility.
"Cipher team, Fox one!" High above, F-15s rippled off a volley of semi-active Sparrow missiles. White contrails tore through the cloudless Iraqi sky, hurling themselves towards rapidly closing Foxbats too distant to be visible.
"Go, go, go," Laskov heard himself whispering. He wanted desperately to pour on the blower and join the fight, but that was not his rule. His Viper was a bomber now, its wingtip sidewinders for emergency self-defense only. His job was not to shoot down a MiG or two, but to destroy the Iraqi chemical plant.
"Splash o— splash two!" Snapped Cipher-lead. "Cipher-team, splash two— Splash Three! Engaging the straggler."
"So much for the cream of Saddam's crop, eh?" Cobra-lead chuckled over the radio.
"Still have the Fulcrums," said Laskov, his eyes bouncing between the featureless desert and his radar MDFs.
"Leave that to me." Cobra-lead peeled vertical, his slick Viper screaming upwards on a pillar of afterburning flame like a bat out of hell. "Cobra Team, let's show these Jews what we can do."
Laskov watched them depart out of the corner of his eye, then turned back to his instruments. "Hammer team, you ready?"
A few miles south of Eagle team, Hammer team's Vipers roared over the desert ready for action. Like Laskov's planes, Hammer's jets were laden down with weapons. But instead of guided bombs, they carried radiation-seeking missiles. *"Affirm. We'll pave the way, Eagle-lead."
Laskov grinned under his oxygen mask, and not a moment too soon. Instants later his RWR was screaming in his ear, and the horizon was full of white smoke lances arcing into the sky. "Missile!" he barked.
"Go Defensive!" snapped Hammer-lead with perceivable boredom. To a fighter pilot, dancing with SAMs was the most terrifying thirty seconds of your life. To a Wild Weasel, it was Tuesday. "Hammer-lead, Magnum."
AGM-78 SARMs roared off the Vipers' wings and howled down the bearing of Iraqi SAM radar. Moments later, the SA-3s ceased their maneuvering and 'went stupid' as their guidance trucks scrambled to hide their signature. It was too late, the SARMs slammed home, blowing a gaping hole in the Iraqi air-defense network.
"That's our cue," said Laskov. His Viper howled towards the chemical weapons facility, laser-guided paveways under his wings already looking for their targets. "Eagle team, attacking."
He spared a moment to check his six. The brawl in the sky had turned into a barely-organized fur ball of contrails and burning wreckage. The Fulcrum pilots were good, each making good use of his jet's maneuverability and speed. But the Jordanian Vipers were better. Each would dive into the battle long enough for a gun-run or a few missile shots, then pull away for a breather when the next Viper joined the fray. Bit by bit, they wore the Fulcrum drivers down, bleeding them of altitude, energy, and luck until one mistake too many caught up with them.
"Not bad," muttered Laskov to himself. Certainly better than the Egyptians. "Eagle team, split and engage!" The chemical facility was too vast and sprawling for a single bombing run to handle. Each pilot had his responsibilities.
"Eagle-lead, release!" With an audible thump thousands of pounds of laser-guided ordnance fell from the Viper's stubby wings, causing the fighter to jump as it suddenly had more than enough lift to play with. Laskov hauled the stick back and hauled clear of the explosion blossoming behind him.
All around the facility, the same thing was happening. Laboratories and factories were annihilated, chemical stockpiles were incinerated. In the sky, burning Foxbat wreckage tore smokey black gashes through the sky, and the Jordanian Vipers had destroyed the Iraqi Fulcrums at the cost of only two of their own—plus one damaged but flyable Viper.
"Ha! Well done Eagle team!" Laskov stood his Viper on its wingtip and circled the burning base for a quick BDA pass.
"Not bad," cackled Cobra-lead. "For a Jew."
—|—|—
Iran, Iraq sign armistice.
Amman, Jordan (CNN) August 4th, 1988
The Iran-Iraq war ended today at twelve-noon Baghdad time. At the cost of more than a million lives—including some two-hundred-thousand civilians—Iraqi forces succeeded in the goal Saddam Hussein laid out some eight years ago. The Khuzestan in south-west Iran has been annexed by Iraq, and Republican Guards units have been sighted transferring into complete the pacification process.
Saddam was quick to praise the armistice as a monument to the triumph of secular Iraqi might over the Ayatollah Khomeini's attempts to export the Islamic revolution to the rest of the Persian Gulf states. Military observers note that Iraqi forces had seized all ceded territory in the opening months of the war, but only now, after years of static lines and trench warfare, accepted a peace deal.
The armistice comes just days after two massive but unconnected airstrikes by Israeli and Jordanian air forces devastated Iraq's chemical weapons foundry near Baghdad. In the face of criticism from other Arab states, Jordan's King Hussein defended his decision to launch the strike. "The free use of chemical weapons," he said at a press conference, "is a threat to all Arabs—to all peoples—everywhere."
He proceeded to state that the attack had not been coordinated with or planned in concert with the Israeli forces, and that—had his planes not been occupied with their attack at the time—they surely would have extracted a toll in blood from the Israeli jets. The sentiment was echoed by the Tel Aviv government, who stress that their operation was planned independently.
—|—|—
Exxon purchases surplussed Air Force Jets.
Irving, Texas (CNN) -November 2nd, 1989
Citing fears that a rapidly constricting and inward-focused military would be unable to defend country interests in an increasingly unstable middle east, the Texas-based oil conglomerate Exxon has purchased thirty General Dynamics F-16s. Twenty-four single-seat A-models, intended for deployment to Exxon's Gulf-area facilities, made up the bulk of the purchase, while six two-seater B-models were for training.
At present, the jets would be flown by Air Force pilots honorably discharged following the recent military draw-down, but Exxon has voiced a interest in transitioning towards an all-civilian flight crew.
The Fighters—officially "Fighting Falcons", but more commonly known by their nickname "Viper"—had been surplussed under President Deckhart's "inward and upwards" budget scheme. Officially organized into an 'air militia' that—like the minutemen of the colonial era—the jets would be recalled to federal service should the country require it, but would otherwise be their owners to do with as they pleased.
Deckhart was quick to praise the agreement. The Soviet Union is, in his words, "a slowly cooling corpse" and continuing to maintain a vast world-spanning military would be "beating a dead bear." America's shrinking, but highly skilled and equipped, was all that's needed in a world soon to be lacking a true global adversary, the President claimed. And, should an unexpected threat arise, America will have at its disposal a vast supply of hardware—without paying the vast maintenance costs such an arsenal would imply.
Pentagon officials, while understandably miffed at the reductions in their budgets, did begrudgingly praise the policy. With the need to maintain a vast fleet of "legacy" craft obviated, and newer tighter goals set, the military can support a stable of cutting-edge vehicles. This technological edge—combined with the extreme standards maintained by remaining pilots—multiplies American might to values far beyond what mere numbers would suggest.
—|—|—
"We have to do something, sir."
President Deckhart stared wordlessly at the White House television, entranced by pictures of Iraqi tanks with their tricolor flags waiving from radio aerials. In less than a day, Saddam's forces had thundered through Kuwait with lighting speed and reckless audacity. They'd learned the lesson of Iran, it seemed. They'd conquered the country in barely two days, and were already starting the annexation process. Dislodging them would be a brutal task, one with a vast butchers' bill in American blood.
"I know." The president scowled. He loathed the idea of sending American boys to die for some tiny plot of sand half a world away. He knew the decision was already made. America needed—at least for a few more years—oil, and even then the country had treaty obligations to the people of Kuwait.
It was the right decision and he knew it. But that didn't make the cost any easier to swallow. "What can we send?"
"Not enough," said the secretary. "Not enough to make a difference. Not without weakening our national defense to an unacceptable degree. Even then it would take too long." He paused for a moment, then continued. "Sir, the Kuwait government in exile is offering bounties to any American air military who'll assist."
Deckhart smiled. Kuwait might be a tiny country with a small military and no land to call its own anymore, but limitless reserves of oil-dollars. Enough to fund a small army or three. "We'll do the same. I'll talk to the senate about issuing letters of Marque."
The US Military might not have any assets in the area. But US citizens had hundreds of jets, tanks, and helicopters pre-staged and waiting to be called up. All thanks to that one little sentence in the constitution. "Allies?" asked Deckhart.
"The Jordanians want in," said the secretary. "As do the Israelis."
—|—|—
Your name is Samuel "Python" Marquez. You flew F-111s for eight years when you were in the air force, not once did you ever so much as think about dropping a bomb in anger.
Now, less than a week after joining the Iron Knights, you're in an Aardvark—your Aardvark—blasting over the Persian Gulf at mach one-two so low you swear the mighty TF-30 afterburning turbofans buried in the plane's afterbody had inhaled a few unfortunate fish. Your wings were loaded with over fifteen tons of bombs, and you had every intention in express-mailing every last one to some Iraqi bastard down below.
"How we looking, Hoss?" You didn't dare glance over at your WSO. Not when your jet was mere inches away from abruptly and destructively joining the Navy. Your eyes were glued to the terrain-following radar, your grip white-knuckle on your stick.
"'s good," said the portly Texan riding shotgun. "Radar's green, engines green, bombs…" he let out a deep rumbling laugh. "Very good."
You smiled under your oxygen mask. "Outstanding." With a gentle flick of the stick and a kiss of the rudder pedals, you sent your Aardvark hurtling towards...
[ ] ...The Iraqi interior (Scud-hunting mission)
[ ] ...Kuwait outskirts (CAS mission)
[ ] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
[ ] ... The Iraqi frontier (anti-airfield mission.)
Washington, DC (CNN) -April 3rd, 1986
The President was pronounced dead today at 4:37 in the morning, following complications from yesterday's tragedy. Speaker of the House Tip O'Neill called for a nation-wide day of mourning to honor the fallen leader, and promises to uphold his legacy until the next election, though some conservatives doubt he will match the fallen President's tenacity.
—|—|—
"This war is never going to end." The Jordanian ambassador spat each word out through grit teeth. The newspaper in his hands was too badly mauled to read, even if one could somehow pry it from his clenched fists. Which didn't matter, as everyone in the room knew what he was speaking of.
The Iran-Iraq war was going into its seventh year, and still there was no end in sight to the bloodshed. Saddam's thugs had been audacious at first. Audacious, and luckier than god's own fools. They'd pushed deep into Iran, as deep as a hundred miles at some points.
That'd been seven years ago. For more than half a decade, the lines had stabilized and the front had turned to a blood-soaked hell that made Verdun, Passchendaele, and the Somme look tame.
"It's not a war." Unlike his Jordanian counterpart, the Israeli ambassador was cold and still as ice. Only the keenest observer would notice the fury burning behind his placid brown eyes. He'd done his time in the IDF, looked on the ugly mask of war square in the eyes back in '73. It was hell, yes, but not like this.
War had rules. War had purpose.
"It's a slaughter." There was no love lost between the fledgling Jewish state and their many Arab neighbors. But the hell in the trenches was a fate no man—Jew or Arab—deserved.
"Mmm," the Jordanian hurled the balled-up newspaper carcass into a wastebin. "They're using gas now."
"That won't change anything." The war might look like World War One. But while the tactics hadn't changed, technology had. Modern NBC gear reduced the threat of gas to a sliver of its former deathly specter. Against troops. Against Civilians, the death toll was catastrophic.
The Israeli couldn't imagine a weapon more singularly useful for killing innocents. Millions of his people had fallen to gas once, the thought of anyone even Arabs suffering the same made his blood boil.
"It will," said the Jordanian. "If Saddam gets away with it, who'll be next."
"The Americans—"
"Won't lift a finger." The Jordanian scowled again. "Not for the Iranians. The President won't send young Americans to die for a people who held them prisoner. Would you?"
The Israeli shrugged. "No," he said quietly.
For a long time, the two men were silent, staring intently at the same wall as each slowly pondered the imponderable.
"This cannot stand," said the Jordanian. Officially, there was no love lost between the people of Israel and the King of Jordan. Unofficially, King Hussein had been at least a sane and stable leader. A man who, if nothing else, recognized the grave danger letting chemical weapons go unanswered posed.
"Your pilots have proven…" the Jordanian trailed off, his face contorting as the true weight of the words he'd been pondering hit him. "most… capable."
The Israeli blinked. It was one thing to mount a deliberately half-hearted invasion. But, he couldn't mean… "You're not…"
"You are a Jew, and I despise you," said the Jordanian. "But," he slowly offered his hand. "You do not drop chemical bombs on children."
—|—|—
"Well…" Colonel Mordechai Laskov glanced off his Viper's stubby wing at the fighter pulling up off his wing. It was another F-16, but one wearing the drab gray colors and proud four-color roundel of the Jordanian Air force. "This is different."
"Eagle Team," A voice crackled over the radio. Gruffly accented but still intelligible, it was distinctly Arab. "This is Cobra team. Welcome to Jordan."
Laskov kept the Jordanian Viper in the corner of his eye. It was flying right along side his jet, too close and at too oblique an angle to get a missile lock, but that didn't keep him from nervously glancing at his RWR every half-heartbeat. "Copy, Cobra Team. Good to be invited this time."
The Arab laughed, his Viper dipping its wing at the Israeli plane. "Of course, Eagle-Lead." A moment later, he answered the question Laskov had been pondering ever since his jets went wheels-up. *"Don't worry, Eagle team. My pilots are the best in the kingdom. If they so much as spike you, they'll answer to my father."
"Your father, Cobra-lead?" Laskov eased his jet a little lower and shot a sideways glance at the Jordanian Viper off his bomb-laden wing. "Someone I'd know?"
Cobra-lead just laughed.
For another few minutes, the planes flew over the relative safety of Jordanian airspace—Laskov never thought he'd hear himself think that. Bomb-laden Vipers from the IAF cruised in low, their engines just below blower. Up above Eagles strapped with missiles and flow by the best dog fighters Israel had to offer flew top cover, mostly to watch for Iraqi MiGs, but… also to be ready to pounce should the Jordanians open fire.
The Jordanian jets, meanwhile, cruised happily alongside the Israeli strike package, apparently trusting in their country's IADS to protect them against Jewish subterfuge. Or maybe… just maybe they trusted their nominal sworn enemies.
"Coming up on the border." Cobra-Lead's voice had lost its former mirth. Now the Jordanian spoke with stone-cold focus. Their target was a chemical weapons facility less than two hundred miles from Baghdad. One Iranian Phantoms had been trying to knock out for two years.
"Copy," said Laskov, sliding his Viper's throttle past its stop into afterburner. A tongue of flame roared from the Pratt & Whittney F-100 turbofan, muscling the heavily-laden jet past the sound barrier with a tremendous crack.
"Foxbats rising to meet us," breathed Cobra-lead. Without the need to cruise all the way from Israel towing tons of bombs, the Jordanian Vipers were almost slick. Only an arsenal of slender air-to-air missiles disturbed their aerodynamics. "I tally… four. No-six."
"We got 'em." Cipher-lead spoke for the first time since forming up over Tel Aviv. Above the Vipers, Cipher team's Eagles poured on the blowers, shoving past even the afterburning Vipers in a race to beat the MiGs to their firing point.
The two squadrons were over two-hundred-fifty miles away, but roaring towards each other at full burner, they'd be at the merge in less than four minutes.
"More MiGs," said Cobra-Lead. "Fulcrums swinging around from the North."
"Yeah, I see them," said Laskov. The Fulcrums were the best jets Saddam had, bare-none. Laskov had hoped they'd be too busy jousting with Iranian tomcats to divert to the chemical facility.
"Cipher team, Fox one!" High above, F-15s rippled off a volley of semi-active Sparrow missiles. White contrails tore through the cloudless Iraqi sky, hurling themselves towards rapidly closing Foxbats too distant to be visible.
"Go, go, go," Laskov heard himself whispering. He wanted desperately to pour on the blower and join the fight, but that was not his rule. His Viper was a bomber now, its wingtip sidewinders for emergency self-defense only. His job was not to shoot down a MiG or two, but to destroy the Iraqi chemical plant.
"Splash o— splash two!" Snapped Cipher-lead. "Cipher-team, splash two— Splash Three! Engaging the straggler."
"So much for the cream of Saddam's crop, eh?" Cobra-lead chuckled over the radio.
"Still have the Fulcrums," said Laskov, his eyes bouncing between the featureless desert and his radar MDFs.
"Leave that to me." Cobra-lead peeled vertical, his slick Viper screaming upwards on a pillar of afterburning flame like a bat out of hell. "Cobra Team, let's show these Jews what we can do."
Laskov watched them depart out of the corner of his eye, then turned back to his instruments. "Hammer team, you ready?"
A few miles south of Eagle team, Hammer team's Vipers roared over the desert ready for action. Like Laskov's planes, Hammer's jets were laden down with weapons. But instead of guided bombs, they carried radiation-seeking missiles. *"Affirm. We'll pave the way, Eagle-lead."
Laskov grinned under his oxygen mask, and not a moment too soon. Instants later his RWR was screaming in his ear, and the horizon was full of white smoke lances arcing into the sky. "Missile!" he barked.
"Go Defensive!" snapped Hammer-lead with perceivable boredom. To a fighter pilot, dancing with SAMs was the most terrifying thirty seconds of your life. To a Wild Weasel, it was Tuesday. "Hammer-lead, Magnum."
AGM-78 SARMs roared off the Vipers' wings and howled down the bearing of Iraqi SAM radar. Moments later, the SA-3s ceased their maneuvering and 'went stupid' as their guidance trucks scrambled to hide their signature. It was too late, the SARMs slammed home, blowing a gaping hole in the Iraqi air-defense network.
"That's our cue," said Laskov. His Viper howled towards the chemical weapons facility, laser-guided paveways under his wings already looking for their targets. "Eagle team, attacking."
He spared a moment to check his six. The brawl in the sky had turned into a barely-organized fur ball of contrails and burning wreckage. The Fulcrum pilots were good, each making good use of his jet's maneuverability and speed. But the Jordanian Vipers were better. Each would dive into the battle long enough for a gun-run or a few missile shots, then pull away for a breather when the next Viper joined the fray. Bit by bit, they wore the Fulcrum drivers down, bleeding them of altitude, energy, and luck until one mistake too many caught up with them.
"Not bad," muttered Laskov to himself. Certainly better than the Egyptians. "Eagle team, split and engage!" The chemical facility was too vast and sprawling for a single bombing run to handle. Each pilot had his responsibilities.
"Eagle-lead, release!" With an audible thump thousands of pounds of laser-guided ordnance fell from the Viper's stubby wings, causing the fighter to jump as it suddenly had more than enough lift to play with. Laskov hauled the stick back and hauled clear of the explosion blossoming behind him.
All around the facility, the same thing was happening. Laboratories and factories were annihilated, chemical stockpiles were incinerated. In the sky, burning Foxbat wreckage tore smokey black gashes through the sky, and the Jordanian Vipers had destroyed the Iraqi Fulcrums at the cost of only two of their own—plus one damaged but flyable Viper.
"Ha! Well done Eagle team!" Laskov stood his Viper on its wingtip and circled the burning base for a quick BDA pass.
"Not bad," cackled Cobra-lead. "For a Jew."
—|—|—
Iran, Iraq sign armistice.
Amman, Jordan (CNN) August 4th, 1988
The Iran-Iraq war ended today at twelve-noon Baghdad time. At the cost of more than a million lives—including some two-hundred-thousand civilians—Iraqi forces succeeded in the goal Saddam Hussein laid out some eight years ago. The Khuzestan in south-west Iran has been annexed by Iraq, and Republican Guards units have been sighted transferring into complete the pacification process.
Saddam was quick to praise the armistice as a monument to the triumph of secular Iraqi might over the Ayatollah Khomeini's attempts to export the Islamic revolution to the rest of the Persian Gulf states. Military observers note that Iraqi forces had seized all ceded territory in the opening months of the war, but only now, after years of static lines and trench warfare, accepted a peace deal.
The armistice comes just days after two massive but unconnected airstrikes by Israeli and Jordanian air forces devastated Iraq's chemical weapons foundry near Baghdad. In the face of criticism from other Arab states, Jordan's King Hussein defended his decision to launch the strike. "The free use of chemical weapons," he said at a press conference, "is a threat to all Arabs—to all peoples—everywhere."
He proceeded to state that the attack had not been coordinated with or planned in concert with the Israeli forces, and that—had his planes not been occupied with their attack at the time—they surely would have extracted a toll in blood from the Israeli jets. The sentiment was echoed by the Tel Aviv government, who stress that their operation was planned independently.
—|—|—
Exxon purchases surplussed Air Force Jets.
Irving, Texas (CNN) -November 2nd, 1989
Citing fears that a rapidly constricting and inward-focused military would be unable to defend country interests in an increasingly unstable middle east, the Texas-based oil conglomerate Exxon has purchased thirty General Dynamics F-16s. Twenty-four single-seat A-models, intended for deployment to Exxon's Gulf-area facilities, made up the bulk of the purchase, while six two-seater B-models were for training.
At present, the jets would be flown by Air Force pilots honorably discharged following the recent military draw-down, but Exxon has voiced a interest in transitioning towards an all-civilian flight crew.
The Fighters—officially "Fighting Falcons", but more commonly known by their nickname "Viper"—had been surplussed under President Deckhart's "inward and upwards" budget scheme. Officially organized into an 'air militia' that—like the minutemen of the colonial era—the jets would be recalled to federal service should the country require it, but would otherwise be their owners to do with as they pleased.
Deckhart was quick to praise the agreement. The Soviet Union is, in his words, "a slowly cooling corpse" and continuing to maintain a vast world-spanning military would be "beating a dead bear." America's shrinking, but highly skilled and equipped, was all that's needed in a world soon to be lacking a true global adversary, the President claimed. And, should an unexpected threat arise, America will have at its disposal a vast supply of hardware—without paying the vast maintenance costs such an arsenal would imply.
Pentagon officials, while understandably miffed at the reductions in their budgets, did begrudgingly praise the policy. With the need to maintain a vast fleet of "legacy" craft obviated, and newer tighter goals set, the military can support a stable of cutting-edge vehicles. This technological edge—combined with the extreme standards maintained by remaining pilots—multiplies American might to values far beyond what mere numbers would suggest.
—|—|—
"We have to do something, sir."
President Deckhart stared wordlessly at the White House television, entranced by pictures of Iraqi tanks with their tricolor flags waiving from radio aerials. In less than a day, Saddam's forces had thundered through Kuwait with lighting speed and reckless audacity. They'd learned the lesson of Iran, it seemed. They'd conquered the country in barely two days, and were already starting the annexation process. Dislodging them would be a brutal task, one with a vast butchers' bill in American blood.
"I know." The president scowled. He loathed the idea of sending American boys to die for some tiny plot of sand half a world away. He knew the decision was already made. America needed—at least for a few more years—oil, and even then the country had treaty obligations to the people of Kuwait.
It was the right decision and he knew it. But that didn't make the cost any easier to swallow. "What can we send?"
"Not enough," said the secretary. "Not enough to make a difference. Not without weakening our national defense to an unacceptable degree. Even then it would take too long." He paused for a moment, then continued. "Sir, the Kuwait government in exile is offering bounties to any American air military who'll assist."
Deckhart smiled. Kuwait might be a tiny country with a small military and no land to call its own anymore, but limitless reserves of oil-dollars. Enough to fund a small army or three. "We'll do the same. I'll talk to the senate about issuing letters of Marque."
The US Military might not have any assets in the area. But US citizens had hundreds of jets, tanks, and helicopters pre-staged and waiting to be called up. All thanks to that one little sentence in the constitution. "Allies?" asked Deckhart.
"The Jordanians want in," said the secretary. "As do the Israelis."
—|—|—
Your name is Samuel "Python" Marquez. You flew F-111s for eight years when you were in the air force, not once did you ever so much as think about dropping a bomb in anger.
Now, less than a week after joining the Iron Knights, you're in an Aardvark—your Aardvark—blasting over the Persian Gulf at mach one-two so low you swear the mighty TF-30 afterburning turbofans buried in the plane's afterbody had inhaled a few unfortunate fish. Your wings were loaded with over fifteen tons of bombs, and you had every intention in express-mailing every last one to some Iraqi bastard down below.
"How we looking, Hoss?" You didn't dare glance over at your WSO. Not when your jet was mere inches away from abruptly and destructively joining the Navy. Your eyes were glued to the terrain-following radar, your grip white-knuckle on your stick.
"'s good," said the portly Texan riding shotgun. "Radar's green, engines green, bombs…" he let out a deep rumbling laugh. "Very good."
You smiled under your oxygen mask. "Outstanding." With a gentle flick of the stick and a kiss of the rudder pedals, you sent your Aardvark hurtling towards...
[ ] ...The Iraqi interior (Scud-hunting mission)
[ ] ...Kuwait outskirts (CAS mission)
[ ] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
[ ] ... The Iraqi frontier (anti-airfield mission.)
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CompassJimbo
Where’s Your North?
- Location
- The former Rubber Capital of the World
[X] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
- Location
- Canada
[X] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
TortugaGreen
Constantly out of the loop
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I remember you talking about this idea on discord - You've gone through with it, I see, which is good as this is an interesting idea.
[X] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
I feel doing in some roads, bridges, or maybe even factories would be a good start and would help disrupt defenses on future missions, potentially saving time and lives.
Incidentally, I see the air force at least has been downsized and money's been redirected. But where is that money going? Not that it'd affect the quest, but having a large chunk of the military budget freed up would have a significant effect on whatever it's put into.
[X] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
I feel doing in some roads, bridges, or maybe even factories would be a good start and would help disrupt defenses on future missions, potentially saving time and lives.
Incidentally, I see the air force at least has been downsized and money's been redirected. But where is that money going? Not that it'd affect the quest, but having a large chunk of the military budget freed up would have a significant effect on whatever it's put into.
- Location
- 'Murica
This and that. Infrastructure, healthcare, Space Station Freedom,... stuff like that.
TortugaGreen
Constantly out of the loop
- Pronouns
- She/Her
That's cool. I'm particularly interested in the space station there, but that's probably not that relevant, unless somebody really screws up or the military is allowed to put guns on it.
- Location
- 'Murica
Nah, the space station stuff is sorta its own thing. Just science and the like. It's amazing what you can do with DoD-tier money.
NuclearConsensus
Herald of the Thorned One
- Location
- the Philippines
Well, this looks interesting.
[X] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
[X] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
You forgot the 'X' in between the brackets.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
wkz
Probably on the other side of the world from you
Given what I know about America, just about every inward-looking government controlled agency needs the moolah.
Even the roads and bridges.
(Note: outsider perspective, may be wrong)
Much appreciated...
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Well it needs the money now.
But this is taking place 30 years in the past, with 30 years less wear and tear on the infrastructure.
It was still trucking along fine then.
[X] ...Kuwait outskirts (CAS mission)
I wanna blow up a supply depot or an arty battery.
Also, neat. You have basically created Ace Combat, 1980's edition. All the brush-fire wars are ours to contend in.
- Location
- 'Murica
Technically, it's Ace Combat, 1990's edition, as it's 1991. (You're flying 80's jets because the good stuff is still strictly-military.)
DawnofWar32
War is coming. Prepare yourselves!
- Location
- Butuan City, The Philippines
[X] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
wkz
Probably on the other side of the world from you
... so this is Area 88, the Quest?
*wkz starts wondering if we're going to pay for every last bullet now*
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- Location
- America
Well, less Area 88. IIRC, we're part of an American militia unit beholden to the United States government, it's just that the feds have given us the go ahead and are hint hinting that it would be a decent idea to pay us for services rendered. Like, if we don't want to fight anymore the only people who can make us are the US government who can just press us into service anyway.
BoredProtagonist
The Mercat
- Location
- Ragna
[x] ...Basrah (anti-infrastructure mission)
It just ain't Planes n' Mercs without warcrimes.
It just ain't Planes n' Mercs without warcrimes.