Due to events on the original home of this fic, it's now being rehosted here. Admittedly only...
[Rehost] (Muv-Luv) Tropical Thunder
- Thread starter Whiskey Golf
- Start date
-
- Tags
- muv-luv
- Created
- Status
- Ongoing
- Watchers
- 5
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 2
-
Statistics (2 threadmarks, 3.9k words)
User Total Whiskey Golf 2 Threadmarks Reader mode
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
"It ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no General's son, son,
It ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no fortunate son."
1995, Malaysia.
"Lipan-5 to Lipan-6. How're you doing, mate?"
"Somehow, these Malaysian Hornets feel kinda off. Not like the ones in Oz."
"Yeah, well it's not as if we can do anything, can we?" grumbled Lipan-5 to his wingman. "Okay, familiarisation's over – let's RTB. Take the lead, I'm your wing."
"Take the lead?" asked Lipan-6, his grin evident, and Lipan-5 rolled his eyes.
"Yes, yes, take the lead. Show me some of that fancy flying you learned at the ADF Academy."
"You asked for it, John," laughed Lipan-6, kicking his F-18C Hornet into afterburner. He dove for the deck, the gray Tactical Surface Fighter barely 50 feet above the ground, and juked left and right, zigzagging, corkscrewing and performing barrel rolls, keeping just above the rainforest canopy. All throughout his mad dash, a smile was on Lipan-6's face.
Keeping formation with him throughout all the maneuvers was Lipan-5, a resigned expression on his face, as Lipan-6 leveled out and entered the landing pattern at RMAF Butterworth.
"Tower, this is Lipan-6, requesting flyby, over."
"Negative, Lipan. Pattern is full."
"Noted tower, thanks!"
"Lipan-6, what do you-"
The air traffic controller's angry shout was cut off by the roar of turbofan engines in afterburner as Lipan-6's Hornet thundered past the tower, with Lipan-5 still on his wing. The two Hornets pulled an Immelman turn at the end of the runway, before righting themselves and coming in to land. As the two Hornets made their way to Lipan Squadron's hangers, Lipan-5 finally spoke.
"Y'know, we're both going to get a chewing out for this, Ray."
"It was worth it, John."
"Let's hope Boss sees it that way."
* * * * *
"So, how's the new boy?" asks Captain Adrian Ong, Commanding Officer of No. 18 Squadron RMAF, to his right hand man. First Lieutenant John Davis takes a moment to collect his thoughts, considering his words, his eyes unfocused as he recalls his impressions from the familiarisation flight.
"Good pilot. He can fly, no question about it. Training wise, from what I saw today he's got good grounding in the essentials. He's got a good head on his shoulders for a new LT. A little cocky. Confident in his skills. All he needs is combat time, lots and lots of combat time, to get all nicely cooked." John shrugged. "As for a training plan, I have no training plan, Boss. Just chuck him in the deep end and pull him out before he drowns is all I can think of. That and lots of ass-chewing."
"Hey, that was all for your benefit," laughs Adrian, and John's lips twich in a small smile, as he inclines his head towards his mentor.
"Anyway, yeah, so with him around that gives us eight pilots total, and we can start going out again – we're back up to more or less full strength. Fuel is alright but spares are a major issue – for the next two weeks, I'm going to run all our training in sim-mode. Any word on our needs?"
"I'm still trying. But now that Raymond is in our squadron we should have it easier to get our spares."
"There are days I wake up and wonder what the hell our Defense Minister is doing. Buying secondhand Hornets without spares. And then those Army Finance brassholes keep trying to cut our costs."
"Well, that's why I managed to get a General's son into our squadron." His CO smirks at him. "You can't just work hard and fight hard, you need to work smart. You need to know how to play the system."
"That's what I have you for, Boss: to play the system, so I can concentrate on fighting," John replies, grinning cheerfully.
"You cheeky bastard!" says Adrian, but his expression is warm and fond.
* * * * *
John Davis and Raymond Tan were both different and similar at the same time. John was the son of an Army Colonel, a military brat who'd grown up in Sabah, only stepping foot in the land of his parents the day he joined the army. Ray was the son of a well-to-do and distinguished General, and had lived his whole life on Peninsular Malaysia. While John had enlisted and won his commission through OCS, Ray had been chosen for a cadet exchange program with the Australian Defense Force Academy. Where John was alternately serious and hot-tempered, Ray was always cheerful and friendly.
But despite all that, they understood each other.
Perhaps it's their backgrounds and command of language. Perhaps it's because their fathers are friends, although they only really met and got to know each other as young men. Perhaps it's because, at the end of the day, they are kindred spirits.
Whatever their connection is, it's cemented on their first combat sortie.
The ammunition counter on Ray's HUD hits zero as he empties the last rounds of his assault cannon's magazine into the side of a Destroyer-class, and the firing vibrations that have been shaking his Hornet's frame cease. Still hungry for a kill, he discards the empty cannon and draws a close combat knife, then lunges towards his foe. The Destroyer rears up as he slices deep into its side, then stumbles and crashes to the ground, its enormous body twitching as it enters its death throes, as if in pain - if such a beast can feel pain.
The problem with Destroyers is that they are never alone.
A nearby Grappler-class closes in and swings at Ray's TSF with one enormous arm: he parries the blow and retaliates by slicing its head off with the close combat knife. He spins to the left, seeking new targets, but is immediately ambushed by a group of Tank-class. Almost instantly, the hungry red forms leap onto his Hornet and force it to the ground, swarming all over the machine, their powerful jaws sinking into the armor plates with a hideous crunching sound. Ray struggles to fight back with the close combat knife, but can't free his TSF's arm from the tank that has it pinned. His breathing quickens and sweat forms on his brow, and he can almost feelthe Tanks working their way to his cockpit block.
Then he hears the bark of an assault cannon firing in semi-auto mode, and the red forms around his TSF explode in flesh and blood. The ground shakes with the approach of giant footsteps, as John arrives, clearing the space around the downed Hornet, switching from guns to the CIWS-1A knife, stabbing and cutting away the Tanks. Ray finds himself able to lift his TSF's arm again, and a moment later the machine's legs are free as well. The Tank-class that is covering his unit's head sensor as ripped away, and he sees John's Hornet standing over his, the knife in its right hand dripping blood as its left hand discards the dead tank's corpse.
A communications window opens in the corner of Ray's HUD, and John appears in it, his face a mixture of anger and concern.
"You okay?" he asks. Ray nods shakily.
"Yeah. Just a bit shook up. Thanks, mate. I owe you one."
John shrugs, then offers his Hornet's hand. Ray grasps it, and John smiles a little, his expression softening, as he helps him up and switches back to his assault cannon.
"Favor for a favor. It's what friends do. Let's move."
Theirs is a friendship forged through blood and shared hardship. The pilots of Lipan Squadron are closer than other squadrons, for in their shared adversity there is fellowship and belonging. They are different, these two young men, in almost all respects - but that doesn't matter, because they are brothers forged by adversity.
I ain't no General's son, son,
It ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no fortunate son."
1995, Malaysia.
"Lipan-5 to Lipan-6. How're you doing, mate?"
"Somehow, these Malaysian Hornets feel kinda off. Not like the ones in Oz."
"Yeah, well it's not as if we can do anything, can we?" grumbled Lipan-5 to his wingman. "Okay, familiarisation's over – let's RTB. Take the lead, I'm your wing."
"Take the lead?" asked Lipan-6, his grin evident, and Lipan-5 rolled his eyes.
"Yes, yes, take the lead. Show me some of that fancy flying you learned at the ADF Academy."
"You asked for it, John," laughed Lipan-6, kicking his F-18C Hornet into afterburner. He dove for the deck, the gray Tactical Surface Fighter barely 50 feet above the ground, and juked left and right, zigzagging, corkscrewing and performing barrel rolls, keeping just above the rainforest canopy. All throughout his mad dash, a smile was on Lipan-6's face.
Keeping formation with him throughout all the maneuvers was Lipan-5, a resigned expression on his face, as Lipan-6 leveled out and entered the landing pattern at RMAF Butterworth.
"Tower, this is Lipan-6, requesting flyby, over."
"Negative, Lipan. Pattern is full."
"Noted tower, thanks!"
"Lipan-6, what do you-"
The air traffic controller's angry shout was cut off by the roar of turbofan engines in afterburner as Lipan-6's Hornet thundered past the tower, with Lipan-5 still on his wing. The two Hornets pulled an Immelman turn at the end of the runway, before righting themselves and coming in to land. As the two Hornets made their way to Lipan Squadron's hangers, Lipan-5 finally spoke.
"Y'know, we're both going to get a chewing out for this, Ray."
"It was worth it, John."
"Let's hope Boss sees it that way."
* * * * *
"So, how's the new boy?" asks Captain Adrian Ong, Commanding Officer of No. 18 Squadron RMAF, to his right hand man. First Lieutenant John Davis takes a moment to collect his thoughts, considering his words, his eyes unfocused as he recalls his impressions from the familiarisation flight.
"Good pilot. He can fly, no question about it. Training wise, from what I saw today he's got good grounding in the essentials. He's got a good head on his shoulders for a new LT. A little cocky. Confident in his skills. All he needs is combat time, lots and lots of combat time, to get all nicely cooked." John shrugged. "As for a training plan, I have no training plan, Boss. Just chuck him in the deep end and pull him out before he drowns is all I can think of. That and lots of ass-chewing."
"Hey, that was all for your benefit," laughs Adrian, and John's lips twich in a small smile, as he inclines his head towards his mentor.
"Anyway, yeah, so with him around that gives us eight pilots total, and we can start going out again – we're back up to more or less full strength. Fuel is alright but spares are a major issue – for the next two weeks, I'm going to run all our training in sim-mode. Any word on our needs?"
"I'm still trying. But now that Raymond is in our squadron we should have it easier to get our spares."
"There are days I wake up and wonder what the hell our Defense Minister is doing. Buying secondhand Hornets without spares. And then those Army Finance brassholes keep trying to cut our costs."
"Well, that's why I managed to get a General's son into our squadron." His CO smirks at him. "You can't just work hard and fight hard, you need to work smart. You need to know how to play the system."
"That's what I have you for, Boss: to play the system, so I can concentrate on fighting," John replies, grinning cheerfully.
"You cheeky bastard!" says Adrian, but his expression is warm and fond.
* * * * *
John Davis and Raymond Tan were both different and similar at the same time. John was the son of an Army Colonel, a military brat who'd grown up in Sabah, only stepping foot in the land of his parents the day he joined the army. Ray was the son of a well-to-do and distinguished General, and had lived his whole life on Peninsular Malaysia. While John had enlisted and won his commission through OCS, Ray had been chosen for a cadet exchange program with the Australian Defense Force Academy. Where John was alternately serious and hot-tempered, Ray was always cheerful and friendly.
But despite all that, they understood each other.
Perhaps it's their backgrounds and command of language. Perhaps it's because their fathers are friends, although they only really met and got to know each other as young men. Perhaps it's because, at the end of the day, they are kindred spirits.
Whatever their connection is, it's cemented on their first combat sortie.
The ammunition counter on Ray's HUD hits zero as he empties the last rounds of his assault cannon's magazine into the side of a Destroyer-class, and the firing vibrations that have been shaking his Hornet's frame cease. Still hungry for a kill, he discards the empty cannon and draws a close combat knife, then lunges towards his foe. The Destroyer rears up as he slices deep into its side, then stumbles and crashes to the ground, its enormous body twitching as it enters its death throes, as if in pain - if such a beast can feel pain.
The problem with Destroyers is that they are never alone.
A nearby Grappler-class closes in and swings at Ray's TSF with one enormous arm: he parries the blow and retaliates by slicing its head off with the close combat knife. He spins to the left, seeking new targets, but is immediately ambushed by a group of Tank-class. Almost instantly, the hungry red forms leap onto his Hornet and force it to the ground, swarming all over the machine, their powerful jaws sinking into the armor plates with a hideous crunching sound. Ray struggles to fight back with the close combat knife, but can't free his TSF's arm from the tank that has it pinned. His breathing quickens and sweat forms on his brow, and he can almost feelthe Tanks working their way to his cockpit block.
Then he hears the bark of an assault cannon firing in semi-auto mode, and the red forms around his TSF explode in flesh and blood. The ground shakes with the approach of giant footsteps, as John arrives, clearing the space around the downed Hornet, switching from guns to the CIWS-1A knife, stabbing and cutting away the Tanks. Ray finds himself able to lift his TSF's arm again, and a moment later the machine's legs are free as well. The Tank-class that is covering his unit's head sensor as ripped away, and he sees John's Hornet standing over his, the knife in its right hand dripping blood as its left hand discards the dead tank's corpse.
A communications window opens in the corner of Ray's HUD, and John appears in it, his face a mixture of anger and concern.
"You okay?" he asks. Ray nods shakily.
"Yeah. Just a bit shook up. Thanks, mate. I owe you one."
John shrugs, then offers his Hornet's hand. Ray grasps it, and John smiles a little, his expression softening, as he helps him up and switches back to his assault cannon.
"Favor for a favor. It's what friends do. Let's move."
Theirs is a friendship forged through blood and shared hardship. The pilots of Lipan Squadron are closer than other squadrons, for in their shared adversity there is fellowship and belonging. They are different, these two young men, in almost all respects - but that doesn't matter, because they are brothers forged by adversity.
Last edited:
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Chapter 2: Team Building
-=-
Andaikata kami gugur semua (Should we all fall)
Taburlah bunga di atas pusara (Scatter flowers on our graves)
Kami mohon doa (We offer prayers)
Malaysia Berjaya (For Malaysia to suceed)
Semboyan telah berbunyi (The bugle has sounded)
Menuju medan bakti! (Heading to the field of service!)
Inilah Barisan Kita (These Are Our Ranks), Malaysian patriotic song.
-=-
Mid-May, 1995.
Unlike most other COSEAN squadrons, where the superior officers hang back and send the men to die, Lipan Squadron's pilots can fight because they have each others' backs. They are a team.
Building that team, however, is a bit of a challenge.
"Congratulations, boys and girls!" Grinning like a madman, First Lieutenant John Davis offers them a false cheer. The de facto XO stands in Lipan's hangar, flanked by the still forms of F-18C Hornets in the dark gray scheme favored by the Royal Malaysian Air Force. In front of him, eyes front, backs ramrod straight, are the newest pilots to the squadron. They have just finished a simulator run. To say things have not gone well would be putting it mildly.
"You have all died honorably in sacrifice to the motherland. You've poured out your blood for your land! You have all fallen, and flowers will be spread on your graves! Liza-"
"My name is Siti," she grumbles under her breath.
"-got introduced to bone-crunching matrimony with Tank-classes! And Shazman, not only were you beaten to death by Grapplers, you shot Raymond down! What the fuck is your malfunction? How in all that is good and holy can you not distinguish between the shape of a Tactical Surface Fighter, specifically the Foxtrot-1-8-Charlie Hornet, and a Being of Extra-Terrestrial origin that is an Adversary of the human race? Please, share your explanation with me, because the only possible way that could have happened is if you were either drunk or motherfucking high! Well?"
"I don't respect Raymond."
"I don't respect Raymond, what?"
"I don't respect Raymond, sir!" replies Shazman, and John's eyebrows twitch at Shazman's expression. It's a happy, innocent and proud smile, the extra-wide smile a child has when they show off a finger painting to their parent. It's the innocent smile of someone who has done the right thing and is proud of it, who believes they have no sin in their heart. It is as if someone took the concentrated pureness of ten puppies and injected it into Shazman. In short, it is a most aggravating expression.
Fortunately, being in the Air Force means John has a way to remove that aggravating look.
"Leftenan Muda Shazman bin Rosli, drop and give me twenty!" he roars, and Shazman's happy expression vanishes, replaced with a look of hurt , as he drops to the floor and starts push-ups, loudly counting off. He finishes and returns to his place, and John fixes him with a baleful stare.
"Let's try again, Shazman. Explain how not respecting Raymond leads you to shooting up his TSF, thus causing Liza to be overrun by Tank-classes, thus creating a hole in the line that lets the BETA flow through and kill you! Please, do explain this to me.
"And wipe that goddamned smirk off your face. Because if you keep this up, you'll be a pariah to the squadron."
-=-
"He took a swing at you?" asked Captain Adrian Ong, Commanding Officer of No.18 "Lipan" Squadron, and John sighed, massaging his temples.
"Yeah, he did, and I tossed him over my shoulder and on his ass, then gave him more push-ups. I forgot that in West Malaysia, calling someone a pariah is a greater insult than motherfucker."
"So what was his problem?"
"You won't believe this, Boss. To Shazman, the brass are assholes responsible for fucking up everything in this country, and their sons are just asshat fortunate sons sent to safe postings and live easy lives while normal folk go off and get killed. So he figures that he'll not respect Raymond, and he believes that there's nothing wrong with killing a fortunate son. And he doesn't like the way some of the other nuggets - girls, really, from the other squadrons - are sort of fawning over him, and figured that killing him would bring them back to their senses. He truly believed that he was doing the right thing. And he thinks that by shooting a friendly TSF in the back, he's demonstrated that he doesn't play favorites, and people will like him more for it."
"I think I'll need to have a talk with him," Adrian says. "You need to go and have a drink. Tell the bar to put it on my tab."
"Right, thanks, Boss."
"And make sure it's beer this time, not that lime juice you always drink."
-=-
Building 2 Flight into a team is, in John's heartfelt opinion, the hardest job he's ever done.
It's not the skills training that's the problem, but getting them to gel together. Skill can be taught and honed; teamwork is something completely different and more difficult to teach. The only real idea he has is to keep drilling his flight, hoping that somehow they will gel together and learn teamwork.
Given that hope is not a plan, his success rate is about could reasonably be expected. As he runs his pilots through another simulator run, he can't help but ponder how naturally they're all individualistic: Ray has the cockiness of a freshly-minted Australian pilot, Liza is somewhat apart with her head in clouds, Shazman is offputting in his enthusiasm and lack of common sense, and John realises that he's an antisocial loner by nature, who's forcing himself to be more social.
They're still short of spares; that limits how much actual flight time everyone has. Adrian wants his squadron at full readiness, and he knows that if Lipan's Hornets aren't airworthy due to lack of spares, the brass will shift the blame to him. Everyone rotates through all of the Hornets, getting used to the idea that there's no such thing as a TSF personally assigned to them. Some deal with it better than others, some don't.
Training continues every day, using simulator mode. Little actual flight takes place, in an effort to limit wear and tear and preserve the airframes. It's not the best solution – a stationary Hornet doesn't quite simulate inertia and G-forces – but it's the least worst option available. Day in, day out, Lipan's pilots train. Tactics are practiced, teamups are mixed in together, and the occasional free-for-all anti-TSF simulation is run for stress relief.
As John guns down Shazman's virtual TSF, he reluctantly agrees that Shazman may have a point: shooting the TSF of someone you don't really like is cathartic.
-=-
"It's been a week. So how?"
"Skill-wise, the nuggets are okay, Boss. Collectively, just okay. Shazman seems to be screwing up less after you talked to him. But I don't think we're making headway in getting 2 Flight to gel. Liza's still kinda blur, Shazman's still got that complex about Ray, and Ray and I are okay. Arranging the wing pairs has been tricky. I can't put Shazman and Ray together, if I put Shazman on my wing and Liza and Ray together my strength is diluted, and if I put Ray on my wing and Liza and Shazman together, I end up with a pair of strong pilots and a pair of weak pilots. Which really looks to be the only real option I have."
"I thought you said they were okay?"
"They're okay. That's if I compare to the other squadrons. Compared to Ray, me, or 1 Flight, they're weak. That'll only get fixed through combat time. I'm at the limit of what I can teach them. And the teamwork isn't at a level I'm comfortable with."
"So, what do you think we should do?"
John grimaces. "This is another one of your tests, isn't it… we need to find some kind of trouble that's not too big and throw them all into it. 1 Flight was forged by shared hardship – we need to get everyone to suffer together, and then we'll gel."
"You really think that'll work?"
"I didn't start calling you Boss until after that Deepavali week on the front." John shrugs. "It worked for me and Shah. It should work for the new kids."
-=-
Of course, as they both know, they can't throw the new kids into combat with the BETA. They want to get the teamwork issues sorted out; if not, 2 Flight's career won't last very long. Fortunately, they don't have to deploy just yet – Lipan still hasn't been ordered to the front, which gives Adrian some time to finish getting his squadron in order.
If there's one good thing about the Southeast Asian front, it's that southern Thailand is a natural chokepoint. The flat terrain aids the defenders, giving an excellent field of view, and giving them a good chance to keep the BETA in check.
Most of the southeast Asian nations have fallen to BETA; at this point, Thai survivors aside, the brunt of the fighting is borne by four nations: Malaysia, Indonesia , Singapore and the Philippines. They aren't alone, though: the US Navy maintains several carrier groups at Yankee Station, launching raids into Vietnam to stall the BETA from achieving breakout, and the Australian Defence Force has forces in-theater: the Royal Australian Navy supports the US Navy, and ANZAC detachments regularly rotate through RMAF Butterworth; Aussie and Kiwi TSFs have been a regular sight there for the last 20 years.
All in all, there are enough forces available that units can be rotated through duty on the Front – and so while Lipan is working up, Adrian places a call to No.75 Squadron RAAF to see about some joint training.
-=-
The Australians are at first cool on the idea of a mock battle; their feeling is that it'll be over too soon for any fun, but Adrian somehow manages to talk their CO into agreeing to this little training exercise. John isn't sure how he does it, but he has his suspicions, given the energetic discussions between the members of Lipan's 1 Flight and the other No.75 pilots.
He pushes those thoughts out of his mind, as he leads 2 Flight to meet their opponents; No.75's 3 Flight, out on the flight line. It's a standard 4-vs-4 setup, limited ammo, and while John is confident enough in his own skills, he's much less sanguine about his flight's chances. He sizes up his opposite number as she approaches him: five foot seven, matching his height. Slender athletic build; probably a swimmer or a runner. Brown hair, cut boyishly short, blue eyes, Caucasian features. Pretty enough, in a sort of tomboyish way.
"G'day," says his opponent, with an eager expression, that could be charitably described as a smile. "Flying Officer Miranda Phelps, callsign Magpie-9."
"First Lieutenant John Davis, callsign Lipan-5. Good luck, and may the best flight win."
"I make my own luck."
"I couldn't agree more," John says as he shakes her hand. The pilots on both sides follow the example of their flight leads, and then it's time to head to the TSFs and get cracking.
"Lipan-6, ready to go," reports Ray, his expression eager and confident.
"Lipan-7, status green." Liza's report is short and sweet.
"I'm ready to make you mine! Come to me, sweet babies, come to Papa Shazman! I'll give you lots of loving!" Shazman cackles madly, and John palms his face.
"Lipan-8, stop screwing around. Magpie-9, on behalf of my squadron, I apologize for how Lipan-8 is such a pervert."
"Magpie-9 to Lipan-5. Apology accepted. I'll take it out of your hides."
"Lipan-5 to Magpie-9, I copy your last, but I'd respectfully ask that you take it out of Lipan-8 first."
"Command Post to Lipan-5 and Magpie-9, you are clear for takeoff. Proceed to your designated rally points. Once all TSFs have reached the rally points, the exercise will begin. Laser warning is in effect, hard deck is 300 meters. Exceeding the hard deck will be considered a kill. This is a standard 4-vs-4 with limited ammo. Good luck. Pilots, proceed to your waypoints, over."
"Lipan-5, to CP, roger, out."
"Magpie-9 to CP, good copy. Out."
"Lipan-5 to 2 Flight. Alright, listen up. We're going up against pros. We're going to fight as a team. We'll pick them off pair by pair. Ray, we're going to be the bait. We'll rush their formation, get them to chase us. You've been trained by Oz pilots: you've got the best shot at staying alive while being chased. I'll stick to your back. Liza, Shazman, you guys pick them off while we keep them occupied. Understood?"
A chorus of agreements brings a small smile to John's face. "Alright, boys and girls. Let's do this. Stick to the plan, and we all come home today."
-=-
"Somehow, John, I'm not surprised at all," remarks Ray, looking at his radar display. His voice is calm and light.
John doesn't answer. His expression in the HUD is one of mixed fury and concentration.
Ray pulls another mad dive towards the sea – their exercise area being a cordoned-off zone in the Strait of Malacca – and John's Hornet stays right on his wing, as if connected by invisible glue. As they dive, they juke from left to right, trying to shake off the aim of their pursuers, pulling up from the water's surface in an Immelman turn, maintaining the turn into a loop, trying to get a quick bead on their pursuers-
No joy.
Closure speeds are too high; their short bursts hit nothing but water as the four Magpies and two Lipans pass each other.
It's a repeated stalemate.
The plan was for Ray and John to play bait, and for Liza and Shazman to pick off their pursuers. Except that as soon as the two flights made the merge, the plan went to hell as Shazman charged ahead, his wild screams proof that he'd forgotten the plan, and he was "shot down" before a minute had passed.
Liza had fared little better.
And now the two survivors were hanging on by the skin of their teeth; they were good enough to avoid being shot down by the Magpies, but not good enough to defeat them. Sooner or later, Ray knew, this was going to end, and not in their favor. They needed a miracle.
"Command post to Lipan and Magpie Flights. Pan, pan, pan. Code Uniform, Uniform, Uniform. Exercise terminated. I say again, exercise terminated. Code 991 in progress. I say again, Code 991. All available units to sortie. RTB for refuel and rearm. Acknowledge."
"Out of the frying pan into the fire," says Ray, laughing at their "miracle". Still, it's about time. He's ready. John's ready. The two of them can handle anything they can face. They're a team.
Inside his cockpit, as he leads the Lipan and Magpie Hornets back to Butterworth, John closes his eyes. His expression is pained.
He can hear the voices of his pilots. How Ray and Shazman are eager for combat. How Liza is still apprehensive. And one painful thought runs through his mind:
They aren't a team. They aren't ready. And now they're going into combat, and they will die.
"Well, then," he mumbles, looking at the ID tags on his HUD. "This is it. Now it's up to them."
-=-
And so ended my second chapter, a year ago. -_-;; Need to get off my ass and continue.
-=-
Andaikata kami gugur semua (Should we all fall)
Taburlah bunga di atas pusara (Scatter flowers on our graves)
Kami mohon doa (We offer prayers)
Malaysia Berjaya (For Malaysia to suceed)
Semboyan telah berbunyi (The bugle has sounded)
Menuju medan bakti! (Heading to the field of service!)
Inilah Barisan Kita (These Are Our Ranks), Malaysian patriotic song.
-=-
Mid-May, 1995.
Unlike most other COSEAN squadrons, where the superior officers hang back and send the men to die, Lipan Squadron's pilots can fight because they have each others' backs. They are a team.
Building that team, however, is a bit of a challenge.
"Congratulations, boys and girls!" Grinning like a madman, First Lieutenant John Davis offers them a false cheer. The de facto XO stands in Lipan's hangar, flanked by the still forms of F-18C Hornets in the dark gray scheme favored by the Royal Malaysian Air Force. In front of him, eyes front, backs ramrod straight, are the newest pilots to the squadron. They have just finished a simulator run. To say things have not gone well would be putting it mildly.
"You have all died honorably in sacrifice to the motherland. You've poured out your blood for your land! You have all fallen, and flowers will be spread on your graves! Liza-"
"My name is Siti," she grumbles under her breath.
"-got introduced to bone-crunching matrimony with Tank-classes! And Shazman, not only were you beaten to death by Grapplers, you shot Raymond down! What the fuck is your malfunction? How in all that is good and holy can you not distinguish between the shape of a Tactical Surface Fighter, specifically the Foxtrot-1-8-Charlie Hornet, and a Being of Extra-Terrestrial origin that is an Adversary of the human race? Please, share your explanation with me, because the only possible way that could have happened is if you were either drunk or motherfucking high! Well?"
"I don't respect Raymond."
"I don't respect Raymond, what?"
"I don't respect Raymond, sir!" replies Shazman, and John's eyebrows twitch at Shazman's expression. It's a happy, innocent and proud smile, the extra-wide smile a child has when they show off a finger painting to their parent. It's the innocent smile of someone who has done the right thing and is proud of it, who believes they have no sin in their heart. It is as if someone took the concentrated pureness of ten puppies and injected it into Shazman. In short, it is a most aggravating expression.
Fortunately, being in the Air Force means John has a way to remove that aggravating look.
"Leftenan Muda Shazman bin Rosli, drop and give me twenty!" he roars, and Shazman's happy expression vanishes, replaced with a look of hurt , as he drops to the floor and starts push-ups, loudly counting off. He finishes and returns to his place, and John fixes him with a baleful stare.
"Let's try again, Shazman. Explain how not respecting Raymond leads you to shooting up his TSF, thus causing Liza to be overrun by Tank-classes, thus creating a hole in the line that lets the BETA flow through and kill you! Please, do explain this to me.
"And wipe that goddamned smirk off your face. Because if you keep this up, you'll be a pariah to the squadron."
-=-
"He took a swing at you?" asked Captain Adrian Ong, Commanding Officer of No.18 "Lipan" Squadron, and John sighed, massaging his temples.
"Yeah, he did, and I tossed him over my shoulder and on his ass, then gave him more push-ups. I forgot that in West Malaysia, calling someone a pariah is a greater insult than motherfucker."
"So what was his problem?"
"You won't believe this, Boss. To Shazman, the brass are assholes responsible for fucking up everything in this country, and their sons are just asshat fortunate sons sent to safe postings and live easy lives while normal folk go off and get killed. So he figures that he'll not respect Raymond, and he believes that there's nothing wrong with killing a fortunate son. And he doesn't like the way some of the other nuggets - girls, really, from the other squadrons - are sort of fawning over him, and figured that killing him would bring them back to their senses. He truly believed that he was doing the right thing. And he thinks that by shooting a friendly TSF in the back, he's demonstrated that he doesn't play favorites, and people will like him more for it."
"I think I'll need to have a talk with him," Adrian says. "You need to go and have a drink. Tell the bar to put it on my tab."
"Right, thanks, Boss."
"And make sure it's beer this time, not that lime juice you always drink."
-=-
Building 2 Flight into a team is, in John's heartfelt opinion, the hardest job he's ever done.
It's not the skills training that's the problem, but getting them to gel together. Skill can be taught and honed; teamwork is something completely different and more difficult to teach. The only real idea he has is to keep drilling his flight, hoping that somehow they will gel together and learn teamwork.
Given that hope is not a plan, his success rate is about could reasonably be expected. As he runs his pilots through another simulator run, he can't help but ponder how naturally they're all individualistic: Ray has the cockiness of a freshly-minted Australian pilot, Liza is somewhat apart with her head in clouds, Shazman is offputting in his enthusiasm and lack of common sense, and John realises that he's an antisocial loner by nature, who's forcing himself to be more social.
They're still short of spares; that limits how much actual flight time everyone has. Adrian wants his squadron at full readiness, and he knows that if Lipan's Hornets aren't airworthy due to lack of spares, the brass will shift the blame to him. Everyone rotates through all of the Hornets, getting used to the idea that there's no such thing as a TSF personally assigned to them. Some deal with it better than others, some don't.
Training continues every day, using simulator mode. Little actual flight takes place, in an effort to limit wear and tear and preserve the airframes. It's not the best solution – a stationary Hornet doesn't quite simulate inertia and G-forces – but it's the least worst option available. Day in, day out, Lipan's pilots train. Tactics are practiced, teamups are mixed in together, and the occasional free-for-all anti-TSF simulation is run for stress relief.
As John guns down Shazman's virtual TSF, he reluctantly agrees that Shazman may have a point: shooting the TSF of someone you don't really like is cathartic.
-=-
"It's been a week. So how?"
"Skill-wise, the nuggets are okay, Boss. Collectively, just okay. Shazman seems to be screwing up less after you talked to him. But I don't think we're making headway in getting 2 Flight to gel. Liza's still kinda blur, Shazman's still got that complex about Ray, and Ray and I are okay. Arranging the wing pairs has been tricky. I can't put Shazman and Ray together, if I put Shazman on my wing and Liza and Ray together my strength is diluted, and if I put Ray on my wing and Liza and Shazman together, I end up with a pair of strong pilots and a pair of weak pilots. Which really looks to be the only real option I have."
"I thought you said they were okay?"
"They're okay. That's if I compare to the other squadrons. Compared to Ray, me, or 1 Flight, they're weak. That'll only get fixed through combat time. I'm at the limit of what I can teach them. And the teamwork isn't at a level I'm comfortable with."
"So, what do you think we should do?"
John grimaces. "This is another one of your tests, isn't it… we need to find some kind of trouble that's not too big and throw them all into it. 1 Flight was forged by shared hardship – we need to get everyone to suffer together, and then we'll gel."
"You really think that'll work?"
"I didn't start calling you Boss until after that Deepavali week on the front." John shrugs. "It worked for me and Shah. It should work for the new kids."
-=-
Of course, as they both know, they can't throw the new kids into combat with the BETA. They want to get the teamwork issues sorted out; if not, 2 Flight's career won't last very long. Fortunately, they don't have to deploy just yet – Lipan still hasn't been ordered to the front, which gives Adrian some time to finish getting his squadron in order.
If there's one good thing about the Southeast Asian front, it's that southern Thailand is a natural chokepoint. The flat terrain aids the defenders, giving an excellent field of view, and giving them a good chance to keep the BETA in check.
Most of the southeast Asian nations have fallen to BETA; at this point, Thai survivors aside, the brunt of the fighting is borne by four nations: Malaysia, Indonesia , Singapore and the Philippines. They aren't alone, though: the US Navy maintains several carrier groups at Yankee Station, launching raids into Vietnam to stall the BETA from achieving breakout, and the Australian Defence Force has forces in-theater: the Royal Australian Navy supports the US Navy, and ANZAC detachments regularly rotate through RMAF Butterworth; Aussie and Kiwi TSFs have been a regular sight there for the last 20 years.
All in all, there are enough forces available that units can be rotated through duty on the Front – and so while Lipan is working up, Adrian places a call to No.75 Squadron RAAF to see about some joint training.
-=-
The Australians are at first cool on the idea of a mock battle; their feeling is that it'll be over too soon for any fun, but Adrian somehow manages to talk their CO into agreeing to this little training exercise. John isn't sure how he does it, but he has his suspicions, given the energetic discussions between the members of Lipan's 1 Flight and the other No.75 pilots.
He pushes those thoughts out of his mind, as he leads 2 Flight to meet their opponents; No.75's 3 Flight, out on the flight line. It's a standard 4-vs-4 setup, limited ammo, and while John is confident enough in his own skills, he's much less sanguine about his flight's chances. He sizes up his opposite number as she approaches him: five foot seven, matching his height. Slender athletic build; probably a swimmer or a runner. Brown hair, cut boyishly short, blue eyes, Caucasian features. Pretty enough, in a sort of tomboyish way.
"G'day," says his opponent, with an eager expression, that could be charitably described as a smile. "Flying Officer Miranda Phelps, callsign Magpie-9."
"First Lieutenant John Davis, callsign Lipan-5. Good luck, and may the best flight win."
"I make my own luck."
"I couldn't agree more," John says as he shakes her hand. The pilots on both sides follow the example of their flight leads, and then it's time to head to the TSFs and get cracking.
"Lipan-6, ready to go," reports Ray, his expression eager and confident.
"Lipan-7, status green." Liza's report is short and sweet.
"I'm ready to make you mine! Come to me, sweet babies, come to Papa Shazman! I'll give you lots of loving!" Shazman cackles madly, and John palms his face.
"Lipan-8, stop screwing around. Magpie-9, on behalf of my squadron, I apologize for how Lipan-8 is such a pervert."
"Magpie-9 to Lipan-5. Apology accepted. I'll take it out of your hides."
"Lipan-5 to Magpie-9, I copy your last, but I'd respectfully ask that you take it out of Lipan-8 first."
"Command Post to Lipan-5 and Magpie-9, you are clear for takeoff. Proceed to your designated rally points. Once all TSFs have reached the rally points, the exercise will begin. Laser warning is in effect, hard deck is 300 meters. Exceeding the hard deck will be considered a kill. This is a standard 4-vs-4 with limited ammo. Good luck. Pilots, proceed to your waypoints, over."
"Lipan-5, to CP, roger, out."
"Magpie-9 to CP, good copy. Out."
"Lipan-5 to 2 Flight. Alright, listen up. We're going up against pros. We're going to fight as a team. We'll pick them off pair by pair. Ray, we're going to be the bait. We'll rush their formation, get them to chase us. You've been trained by Oz pilots: you've got the best shot at staying alive while being chased. I'll stick to your back. Liza, Shazman, you guys pick them off while we keep them occupied. Understood?"
A chorus of agreements brings a small smile to John's face. "Alright, boys and girls. Let's do this. Stick to the plan, and we all come home today."
-=-
"Somehow, John, I'm not surprised at all," remarks Ray, looking at his radar display. His voice is calm and light.
John doesn't answer. His expression in the HUD is one of mixed fury and concentration.
Ray pulls another mad dive towards the sea – their exercise area being a cordoned-off zone in the Strait of Malacca – and John's Hornet stays right on his wing, as if connected by invisible glue. As they dive, they juke from left to right, trying to shake off the aim of their pursuers, pulling up from the water's surface in an Immelman turn, maintaining the turn into a loop, trying to get a quick bead on their pursuers-
No joy.
Closure speeds are too high; their short bursts hit nothing but water as the four Magpies and two Lipans pass each other.
It's a repeated stalemate.
The plan was for Ray and John to play bait, and for Liza and Shazman to pick off their pursuers. Except that as soon as the two flights made the merge, the plan went to hell as Shazman charged ahead, his wild screams proof that he'd forgotten the plan, and he was "shot down" before a minute had passed.
Liza had fared little better.
And now the two survivors were hanging on by the skin of their teeth; they were good enough to avoid being shot down by the Magpies, but not good enough to defeat them. Sooner or later, Ray knew, this was going to end, and not in their favor. They needed a miracle.
"Command post to Lipan and Magpie Flights. Pan, pan, pan. Code Uniform, Uniform, Uniform. Exercise terminated. I say again, exercise terminated. Code 991 in progress. I say again, Code 991. All available units to sortie. RTB for refuel and rearm. Acknowledge."
"Out of the frying pan into the fire," says Ray, laughing at their "miracle". Still, it's about time. He's ready. John's ready. The two of them can handle anything they can face. They're a team.
Inside his cockpit, as he leads the Lipan and Magpie Hornets back to Butterworth, John closes his eyes. His expression is pained.
He can hear the voices of his pilots. How Ray and Shazman are eager for combat. How Liza is still apprehensive. And one painful thought runs through his mind:
They aren't a team. They aren't ready. And now they're going into combat, and they will die.
"Well, then," he mumbles, looking at the ID tags on his HUD. "This is it. Now it's up to them."
-=-
And so ended my second chapter, a year ago. -_-;; Need to get off my ass and continue.
Last edited: