Titanium Overcast, Take 2: Nuclear-Electric Boogaloo

[FC Error]

Titanium Overcast​

"Umbilical DC, port secure. We are on internal power."

Your name is Colonel Andrew Kayleigh, Osean Air Defense Force. You used to be a fighter pilot.

"Reactors one and two, stable-critical, eleven-hundred degrees."

That was twenty years ago. Back when all you needed were a few fifty-calibers, a turbocharged V-twelve, and a whole lot of guts.

"Sir, checklist complete," said the flight engineer sitting to your five. Even if you'd looked in his direction, you wouldn't have seen him. The airman was entombed in more steam gauges and linear-tape displays than a whole squadron of Mustangs. "Ready to start engines."

"Roger, XO?" You glanced to the slender woman strapped in at your three. Whenever you felt nostalgic for the old days when you rode alone, you took a look at the vast checklists she handled for you. That made the feeling go away.

"Fire guard standing by, all compartments secure." Her voice was almost preternaturally calm, every light on her board glowing a comforting green.

"Brakes are—"

"Brakes are set, sir."

"Roger," you thumbed a button on your armrest, patching your mic into the plane-wide net. "Crew this is AC, brakes are set, fire guard are standing by, start engines."

"Roger in reactor compartment, sir," a tinny squelch came through your headset. The nukes were a strange bunch. You imagined anyone who understood the high-energy physics of a nuclear reactor and still wanted to fly right next to one had to be.

"Uh, ground, this is panel," called the flight engineer.

"This is ground, sir."

"Clear one two three four for start."

"Copy, one two three four clear."

"Starting one." You heard switches close with the harsh snap of electro-mechanical relays. Far behind you, compressed air from the APU cluster bled into vast turbofans. Super-heated liquid metal flowed through densely-packed heat exchangers standing in for the flame-cans of a conventional turbo-jet under the watchful eye of both flight engineer and reactor technician.

The barely-audible whine of APU bleed vanished into the deeper, almost musical roar. Again and again and again your flight engineer repeated the same process, each time adding a new and imperceptibly different note to the mightiest pipe organ ever built. "Four turning, sir."

You leaned forwards against your harness. You could tell Banshee was doing the same. Her four engines were barely above idle, but the big plane was straining at her brakes already. She wanted to fly, you could tell. Those brief hops during her qualification trials hadn't been enough for her.

"Secure APU and verify," you ordered.

"APU secured." You told yourself you could notice the slight change in Banshee's song when her tiny kerosene-burning turbines throttled down to nothing. "Bus verified, we're on nuclear power."

"Flight, how we looking?"

"We're good, AC," said the pilot sitting at your eleven. He and his comrade beside him were busy running their own pre-flight checks. "Hydraulics OK, control surfaces OK, go for fly-by-wire."

"Copy, fly-by-wire." You wouldn't lie, there was some small part of you that found the idea of flying by computer… disquieting. But there wasn't any good alternative for a plane this massive. "Throttle two-zero percent, deploy lift-fans."

"Copy." Both pilots laced their fingers over the common throttle quadrant and eased the engines up to twenty-percent thrust. Meanwhile, the Flight Engineer was busily rattling off commands to his staff, unveiling and spinning-up the dozen kerosene-burning lift engines scattered around Banshee's airframe. They weren't enough for VTOL, but they'd at least reduce her takeoff roll to something less absurd.

"Hartzman tower, Banshee," you hit a different button on your seat, linking your mic into the ATC net. "Request takeoff clearance."

"Copy, Banshee, wind is one-three-one at one-five knots, runway nine-zero romeo cleared for takeoff."

"Cleared for takeoff, Runway nine-zero romeo," you echoed back. "Panel, how we looking?"

"Twelve burning, AC."

"Go full lift," you ordered. You had miles of perfectly flat salt to work with, but there were precious few bases with that luxury. You wanted to see how your plane handled under more normal conditions. "Flight, go full blower, hold short. Give me three notches of flaps."

"Full lift, full blower," said one pilot.

"Hold short, three notches," said the other.

If you thought Banshee was straining at her breaks before, it was nothing compared to the desperate struggle she put up when gallons of kerosene were dumped into her super-heated exhaust. Her turbines vomited hot blue flame, her exhaust petals flaring to contain the sudden conflagration. Her enormous wings seemed to droop as tripple-slotted blown fowler flaps slid back on their tracks and krueger flaps stretched her leading edges.

"Flaps down and locked."

"Brake release," you ordered. The words barely left your mouth when Banshee bucked under you. The vast collection of trucked wheels hanging off her belly like the limbs of a centipede seethed like a living thing as she tucked her nose down, then settled into flight attitude.

"Fast girl," you muttered to yourself. Banshee was jealously devouring the high-desert air into noise and speed. It wasn't quite as aggressive as your old Mustang, but it was just as exciting.

"Panel, commit."

"React, comit."

"Flight, AC takeoff commit."

"Copy," said the pilot. Moments later his fellow called V1.

Out the corner of your eye, you could see the winglet at the tip of Banshee's vast wing start to twitch. She had enough air over her wings now, they wanted to fly. It was only the weight of her fuselage that kept her grounded. She shuddered as her wheels found a slight bump in the salt flat. The jump sent her into the air, only for her to glumly settle back on her oleos as her wings failed—barely—to support her.

"Vr!"

"Rotate!" Both pilots eased their yokes back in concert, lifting Banshee's nose gently to the sky. Her wheels left the ground as she settled into a cushion of air trapped by ground effect. Without their drag, she put on the knots like a racing stallion. "Retract."

"Braking." The wheels might make up a tiny fraction of Banshee's total mass, but their gyroscopic effect was not to be ignored. And if even one of them scuffed their well while spinning, it was something best not contemplated.

"Gear up and locked," called your XO. "All gray."

"V2!" barked the pilot. You could tell Banshee was riding differently now. She wanted to climb out of ground effect, it was only her pilot's gentle command that kept her in it.

"Secure lift fans," you ordered. The supplemental engines weren't meant for constant use, even if you could afford to feed their kerosene habit, you'd rather not run them harder than necessary. "Take us to ten-thousand feet and secure blowers."

"Angels ten and secure blowers," said the pilot. Both men eased their yokes back, climbing in a gentle circle to say within ADF-controlled airspace. You craned your neck out the armored canopy, scanning the brilliant white salt for the airstrip you'd just left. The rest of the aerial action group was sitting tip-to-tail on the taxiway, waiting for the turbulence Banshee left to dissipate so they could make their own runs. You could even—although only just—see your airwing sitting on a secondary airstrip. Two planes were already screaming down the runway to join you in the air.

A few moments later, you felt Banshee level off. The tone of her distant engines mellowed as her blowers throttled back to null, and the last bit of flaps she still had out were jacked back into her vast wing. "Level at ten-thousand, AC."

"Copy," you said. "LSO, deploy traps, I want our planes aboard quick as you can."

"LSO copy."

You glanced at your XO and smiled. "She's a hell of a lady."

"We'll see," she said with a tiny smile you only noticed because you'd known her so long.

You hit the release on your harness and let the straps fall away. "Once the CAG's aboard, I want her and the rest of the senior staff in my office."

"Sir," said your XO.

"XO, you have the aircraft."

—|—|—

Your office was aft of the flight deck and built into the same semi-glazed bulge that ran along Banshee's spine. Through the handful of windows you'd been allotted, you could just see the wingtips streaming wispy contrails. It was a nice view, but you were more impressed by the room's sheer size. That'd been your biggest complaint about the old Lake Superior class planes. Having a senior staff meeting meant cramming everyone in like sardines and made it miserably hard to actually fight the ship.

"Sir." Your XO was the first to arrive. Lieutenant Colonel Charity Crow, an Osean native from the frigid wastes of misleadingly-named Fairweather. You'd imagined that growing up in a city where anything above freezing was considered balmy would have toughened her against the cold, but she'd barely ducked through the hatch before directing herself to your coffee maker.

"XO," you gave her a nod. "How's she flying?"

"Like a dream," she snapped her mug's spill-proof lid closed the moment she was done. "I'm not thrilled about the roll-rate though."

"Yeah," you sighed. Nothing this big was ever really gonna handle like you wanted her to. But Banshee seemed a little too happy to go in straight lines for your tastes. Before you could say anything further, your flight engineer presented himself.

"Major." Eric Logan was a father to his engines. Which is to say he considered them screaming infants in need of constant supervision and correction, and found attempts to critique his methods by anyone outside the fraternity of aircraft engineers personally insulting. He was still in a reasonably good mood, however. The NTF-triple-sevens must not've caused any issues yet.

"Sir." Logan gave you a respectful nod and found a place to sit.

Captain Liam Carson was next. Your Tactical Action Officer—or "missile boss"—he was in charge of your plane's offensive and defensive batteries. He also could hit the broad side of a barn, but only just. You'd never seen an officer with such a perfect string of barely-passing range qualifications. "Sir."

Your CAG, Major Allison Bridger—call sign "Jolly"—,was the last to arrive. Her flightsuit was zipped open and the sleeves rolled back to show off the day-glo red of her turtleneck. She found a place and sat, legs spread wide with her elbows resting on her knees. "AC."

"The Nordlanders are causing trouble," you said without preamble. "Privateers based out of untold little stand castles in the Spring Sea have been ranging from Sapin to Anchorhead interdicting trade and generally acting like little viking shits." You sighed. "The Nordlands, of course, deny any involvement and say they're doing all they can to stop these attacks."

"Of course they are," groused Carson.

"Erusea's been screaming the ambassador's ear off," you continued, "blaming our inaction for these attacks. Sapin and Raito are up in arms and Belka is…" you sighed, cradling your head in your hand. "Belka."

"Sir," Jolly raised her hand. "Last I checked, aren't the Nordlanders our allies?"

"Yes," you said. "But Osea relies on trade. Without the certainty of free navigation, that trade dries up. Our economy stops and three years from now we're all eating borscht. We do not let that happen. And the brass does not want another war."

"Understood," said Jolly.

"So," asked Carson. "What's the plan?"

>What's the plan?
>Specify your plan, and the ships/resources/etc you want, and it'll be translated into in-universe terms when I write the update. (Also, you might not get everything you ask for.)

_____

First update was written by @theJMPer, and is being reposted because he has decided to focus on his other ongoing projects, apparently leaving me to take the reins here. Buckle up, kids.

Consultants for this project include, as before, the possibly-esteemed @Whiskey Golf, resident Wolfbait @CompassJimbo, and the ever-opinionated @7734. Bribes are to be directed to @Strypgia the token adult, and @B-baka! may or may not be doing art.

 

[FC Error]

The Modern Airship: An Abbreviated History

Airships, in the moderns sense of large fixed-wing aircraft intended for combat, surveillance, transport, or other military duties, can trace their lineage back to the early days of the Cold War. But to truly understand how they came to be, one must understand the working environment in which they were designed.

In the late twenties and early thirties, a bumper-crop of multi-engine monoplane bombers with heretofore unheard of speed and ceiling appeared in all corners of the globe. These fast, sleek airplanes promised to out-run any of the primitive biplane fighters of the era, and to out-climb any ground-base anti-aircraft batteries, prompting the common theory that "The bomber will always get through."

This theory was put to the test during the Osean Continental War, and found wanting. Fast monoplane fighters then entering service—combined with the superb training and direction of Belkan pilots—made bombing attacks nearly suicidal. It became brutally obvious within the first few months of hostilities that any bomber attack would need to be heavily defended. Attempts were made to create "self-defending" bombers—most famously the B-17 "Flying Fortress" and XB-40 "Gun-fortress"—but none were able to affect meaningful change in the face of skilled Belkan pilots. The only solution, it seemed, were escort fighters.

P-40s, and later P-51 Mustangs with their immense seven-plus hour endurance, became the lifeblood of the Osean air offensive. Bomber formations with escorts attached at the hip suffered drastically fewer casualties than their un-escorted compatriots, even in the face of increasingly advanced Belkan interceptors mounting heavier guns and even early missiles. Out of this experience came the driving Axiom of the Osean Air Defense Force, "The Bomber Must Always Be Escorted."

But even as the dust settles, another war was brewing on the Western Horizon. The Union of Yuktobanian Republics was a rising superpower that stood against Osea. Separated by the vast expanse of the Ceres Ocean, the Yuktobanian industrial heartland presented a difficult problem for the Osean Air Defense Force. New bombers like the ultra-heavy B-36 Peacemaker could—barely—make the immense round-trip flight, but providing the all-important escort seemed impossible. F-82 Twin Mustangs had the longest legs of any fighter in the Osean arsenal, but even they could barely reach half the Peacmaker's immense radius. Jet aircraft, while clearly the way of the future, had still shorter legs. But as Osean doctrine did not allow for the possibility of unescorted bombers, some solution needed to be found.

The obvious solution would've been carrier-based aircraft. But the Osean Navy had languished at the bottom of the appropriations heap for years while Osea was fighting her land-based neighbors, and the Yuktobanians had a commanding lead—especially in the realm of submarines. Both the Air Defense Force and Navy agreed that any carriers launched would be sunk in the opening minutes of a war, although the Navy used this as cause to argue for a vastly expanded fleet of anti-submarine escorts and patrol craft. The Air Defense Force, however, took a different approach.

We pause the story to look at what in any other military would've been a minor footnote in history. The Chain project of the late 30's. Osean military scientists had long been troubled by the questionable accuracy afforded by high-altitude level bombers. While the commonly repeated reason is a care for human life and an attempt at minimizing casualties, the reality was Osean generals wanted to minimize the number—and thus cost—of bombers needed to destroy a hard target. These experiments bore fruit with the Norden compensating bombsight, and later in guided weapons like the BAT bomb and ASM-A-1 Tarzon. but Project Chain took a different approach.

Dive-bombing had already proved itself very accurate, but bombers rugged enough to handle the forces of a steep dive and resulting pullout were too small to carry a heavy payload or much fuel, while bombers with the size and range to strike deep into Belka lacked the structural rigidity to endure a dive. Project Chain sought to combine the two into a single system.

A B-24 (chosen because of its high-mounted wing) was fitted with two modified P-40s each carrying a single two-thousand pound bomb. The combination, although ungainly to look at, took to the air with little coaxing, as the fighter's wings contributed to the overall lift of the collection, and proceeded to bomb test targets with astounding accuracy. Several versions of the concept were tried, including one bomber that carried five parasite fighters (two P-40s under the wings, another pair on top, and a fifth that docked with a trapeze in the bomber's former bomb-bay after takeoff.) Chain combinations had a small but successful career in the early stages of the Belkan war before advances in technology and tactics rendered them moot.

But in the late 40's, with the need to carry air-power across the Ceres ocean, the concept was dusted off again. Initially B-36s were modified to carry four diminutive F-85 Goblin fighters each. However, it became very clear that to be even minimally capable, a fighter would need to be much larger. B-36 FICON conversions were built to carry modified versions of front-line fighter craft, although only one fighter could be carried per bomber.

After several attempts to build bombers large enough to carry heavier fighters, the concept evolved from parasite aircraft riding bombers into airborne carriers - exceptionally large aircraft dedicated to carrying escort fighters internally. With the advent of nuclear-thermal turbojets ('thermojets' or 'radiojets'), these gargantuan aircraft became capable of extreme-duration flights; indeed, one early prototype circumnavigated the world during endurance and range testing.

Naturally, a carrier requires escorts - and so, smaller, but still oversized, aircraft (now dubbed 'airships', due to their size) were developed to defend the carrier from enemy attack - and, to a limited extent, perform bomb runs or attack missions on their own.

As fleets began to take shape in the skies, traditional long-range bombers saw their role greatly reduced - limited mostly to nuclear deterrence along with specialized airships. Aerial carriers no longer existed to escort bombers, but rather, carried attack aircraft - and their escorts, while large targets, took up much of the heavy ground-strike role heavy bombers once dominated.

While airships are still few in number, several other nations have shown interest in the concept - with Osea having built nearly forty airships of varying design, the Yuktobanian Republics, Republic of Emmeria, and perhaps most notably, Principality of Belka have all begun their own R&D programs. Time will tell how influential these behemoths of the skies shall be.

 

[FC Error]

Airships of the World

Osean Federation

Lake Superior-class carrier (1956): A prototype later commissioned to active service, OFAS Lake Superior is a testbed for many new systems and upgrades. With a relatively heavy air wing of 20 aircraft, the ship has encountered issues with lack of power; however, she remains in service as a training vessel.

Banshee-class carrier (1964): An expansion and redesign of the previous Lake Superior, the Banshee-class carrier reduces internal hangar space somewhat in exchange for heavier armament and extra fuel and munitions stores for its aircraft. Additional radio capabilities allow for much-improved fighter coordination and direction, and the addition of AIM-7 and AIM-9 launchers give the ship a significant defensive armament, while AIM-8 Talos batteries give her a degree of offensive firepower.

Shellburne-class cruiser (1957): One of the first production-model airships, the Shellburne is a cruiser-type ship, meant for general duties. Carrying either four combat aircraft or a single C-2 Greyhound, the ship is not a heavy carrier by and means, but boasts AIM-7 Sparrow missiles, a number of 40mm and 20mm gun mounts, and impressive maneuverability for an airframe of its size. 7 produced.

Kirwin Sound-class cruiser (1960): A curious vessel, the Kirwin Sound and her sister ship Saint Mary were the first cruisers to eschew heavy gun armament in favour of extensive missile batteries. Making use of rotary, internally-carried missile racks permitted an exceptionally heavy armament, with Sparrow and Talos missiles serving as the primary armament. Due to ongoing problems with missile reliability and accuracy, however, these ships are kept mostly sidelined. 2 produced.

Saint Hewlett-subclass (1963): A retrofit of the earlier Shellburnes, the Saint Hewletts add AIM-8 Talos missiles, improved illumination radars, and several more 20mm gun batteries. 2 produced to date.

Peregrine-class destroyer (1955): The first class of ships to enter active service, the Peregrines were regarded as a step forward from prototypes, but still substandard; while carrying as many as 10 aircraft, they lacked speed and maneuverability, and showed very poor climb rates and maneuverability, an issue exacerbated by underpowered engines. The large hangars reduced their weapons load considerably, limiting the ships to a few 20mm gun mounts and a scant two AIM-7 Sparrow launchers. 3 produced.

Shrike-class destroyer (1962): A new and oft-praised design, the Shrike is a very dedicated warship. Carrying only two planes, the ship is devoted to carrying extensive 40mm and 20mm gun batteries, alongside an array of Sparrow, Talos, and Sidewinder launchers. Additionally, wing bays permit the ship to carry up to 20,000 pounds of bomb load for ground-attack missions. It is the only airship class to date capable of breaking the sound barrier (if only barely, and only with the assistance of hydroborate-burning afterburners). 4 produced to date.

 

[FC Error]

You lot are free to post. That should be all the relevant informational stuff.

 

[7734]

For everyone curious, Plane Management is coming up soon. Until then, focus on your escorts, and don't get greedy.

 

[CompassJimbo]

resident Wolfbait @CompassJimbo

Click to shrink...

Huh. And I thought this thing had gone by the wayside.

 

[7734]

CURRENT AVAILABLE PLANES FOR REQUISITION

F-86 Sabre
F-89 Scorpion
F-100 Super Saber
F-101 Voodoo
F-101G Electric Voodoo
F-102 Delta Dagger
F-104 Starfighter
F-105 Thunderchief
F-106 Delta Dart
F-110 Spectre

Limited numbers of these planes are available, and (bar trying to load up on Spectres) you should be able to load 24-32 planes on your carrier. Be careful! Acquiring new planes while on deployment can be tricky! Any space not used by planes will be dedicated to excess weapon storage.

 

[Lithobraker]

[X] Go and take care of the 'Privateer' problem.

[X] Planes
-4 F-110s
-4 F-106s
-4 F-105s
-5 F-102s
-3 F-101s
-3 F-101Gs
-7 F-100s

 

[FC Error]

You can/should also vote on your fleet; a carrier needs escort, after all.

 

[7734]

[X] Plan "Go Away Problems"
-[X] CAG
--[X] Us.
--[X] Kirwin Sound class cruiser
---[X] Air to air loadout
--[X] 3x Shrike class destroyer
---[X] Air to air loadout
--[X] 2x Perregrine class destroyers.
---[X] Air to ground loadout; lots of 1000lbs radio glide bombs for the ship and Bullpups, two Sabers for spotting aircraft.
-[X] Air Group
--[X] 3x Electric Voodoo
--[X] 9x Delta Dagger
--[X] 4x Thunderchief
--[X] 4x Spectre
--[X] 6x Super Sabre
-[X] Plan
--[X] Go in, wave the flag from altitude with us while the two old boats stay down in the wind bands sniffing for bullshit. Make sure the destroyers all have suitable ATG munitions.

 

[FC Error]

[X] Plan "Go Away Problems"


"Stick and bigger stick, in essence." you answered. "Peregrine and Cliff Hawk stay low, make themselves obvious, and wave the flag as hard as they can. Rest of the group holds up high - say, angels forty or so - and pounce on anyone who sticks their head up too far."

Jolly frowned. "Who do you want deployed where, then, sir?"

"Three of our Super Sabres aboard each of the Peregrines - everybody else can ride with us. XO, once we're done here, I want an ordy check of the group - we'll want all the SAGBs aboard the shitcans for hitting surface targets and the spare fighter munitions shifted around to prioritise the ships actually carrying birds." you instructed, running a hand through your hair.

Crow nodded. "I don't think we have many glide-bombs available, but we can shift some thousand-pounders or Bullpups over to the destroyers to make up for any gaps?" she queried, an eyebrow raised.

"Do so.' you replied. "They and the fighters will be doing all the mud-moving anyways, so it's not critical to keep the Shrikes supplies with A-to-G. Anything else?" you asked, looking around the tiny office at shaking heads. "Alright, dismissed."

As your department heads filed out, you turned to the paperwork waiting for you on your desk. It had become an increasingly insidious evil, since you were promoted out of the cockpit; it even followed you airborne. Sighing, you started in on the work, musing that somehow, the military had made commanding a giant flying aircraft carrier boring. And it was only your fourth flight aboard Banshee.

An indeterminate time later - well, alright, ten minutes - you glanced out the window, pausing in your paperwork at the sleek form of Kirwin Sound slotting neatly into formation off your own plane's left wing. Plane? Ship? Whatever.

You spent a moment admiring the sight before turning back to the paper hell waiting for you. The view, unfortunately, was not as important as ensuring engineering got their spare coolant pumps on time.

_____

A harsh buzz sounded from the intercom on your desk, grabbing your attention. Hitting the button, you answered the incoming call. "Kayleigh."

"Cockpit, Crow here." the caller identified herself. "Group is in formation and standing by. Taking aboard the last of the fighter wing now."

"Understood. Be there in a moment." you replied, grateful for the excuse to leave the mind-numbing desk work behind for a while. Snagging your coffee mug - the wide-bottomed one with a sealed top - you made your way forwards along the plane's spine, nodding to your exec as you stepped into the cockpit. "XO."

"AC." she stood from the commander's seat, saluting. "Last of the fighters just came aboard. One of the E-Voodoos had some sort of engine fault; airfield says it's relatively minor, they can catch up to us en route. Ordnance teams are prepping what glide-bombs we have to be shifted to Peregrine and Cliff Hawk."

"Good. How many GBs do we have available?" you queried, taking the AC's seat and motioning Crow to one of the jump seats against the wall.

"Not many, all told." she sat heavily, looking mildly disgruntled. "Twenty-two, and some thirty-six Bullpups. Not much by way of guided air-to-ground, AC."

"You'd think, given our mission role, they'd see fit to send us some passable anti-shipping ords." you groused quietly. "Get them schlepped over to the cans by twenty-two hundred. Anything else?"

"Not yet, sir." came the reply. Nodding, you turned to the radioman. "Radio, signal to group; course change to bearing zero-niner-five. After course change, all ships are to assemble in patrol formation."

"Aye, sir," the lieutenant replied, setting to work. A few moments later, he looked up - "All ships acknowledge course and formatton changes, AC."

"Pilot, come right to bearing zero-niner-five, nice and easy." you instructed, eyeing the instruments. The huge plane began a gentle bank, turning to the specified course, gently rolling wings-level as the pilots eased off the turn.

"Steady on course, AC. Holding at angels ten, four hundred fifty knots."

"AC, Hartzmann Tower sends regards and wishes us good luck and good hunting." the radioman informed you.

"Understood. Radio, send Hartzmann our thanks. Tell them we'll bring back a jolly roger for the base flagpole."

With a muted chuckle, the officer did so; turning to look forward, you watched with interest as the form of Kirwin Sound drifted overhead, slowly pulling ahead to take up position ahead of the group.

_____

"AC?" A scant twenty minutes later saw you looking over a sheaf of reports on a clipboard, now distracted by the radioman. "Just got a message from ATC at Bana City. They're asking if we can divert and do a fly-by; some sort of local airshow they've got going on."

"How did civil ATC even know we're deploying?" you asked, eyebrows rising.

"We're not precisely a small radar contact, AC." Carson called from his seat.

"...point." you muttered.

>[] Why not? It's not far off course and fuel isn't precisely a concern. Drumming up support for the program is a nice bonus.
>[] Hold course - we've got a job to do. Maybe they can have a gander next time the ADF has Lake Superior on tour down south.
>[] Compromise - detach a Shrike or two and have them make a pass over the city. Make the locals happy, and the tin cans can catch up again without even trying hard.
>[] Write-in

 

[7734]

[X] Compromise - detach a Shrike or two and have them make a pass over the city. Make the locals happy, and the tin cans can catch up again without even trying hard.

Airshow funsies for the decent destroyers; not like I trust the shitcans with it.

 

[hcvquizibo]

[X] Why not? It's not far off course and fuel isn't precisely a concern. Drumming up support for the program is a nice bonus.