DuLac walked into the briefing room, his pilots were quiet and looking very tired. They had only landed from a hit and run sortie less than four hours before.
"Alright, I know you are tired but this one will be a less arduous one. We are escorting three flights of Wraith Heavies to point Delta. We will be taking off in two hours, we will be rendezvousing with the heavies at point Alpha," he pointed at the map showing the rendezvous point. "From here we will proceed through point Bravo and Charlie before strafing through the target before the heavies drop down and flatten the entire area. Any questions?"
"Yeah Whisper, how do I get out of this shit unit?" Flt Lieutenant Dante Ribot asked.
"That's enough Ribbet. Look I know you're all tired, I'm tired, but we just have to suck it up. I promise you will all be stood down for forty-eight hours when we get back. So push through and we will get this done and then we can rest. Ok?" There were plenty of grumbles and the odd whispered curse, but he knew his people would do their very best. That's why they were chosen for this Squadron.
DuLac sat in the cockpit and waited for the signal to take off, the Reaper F7R was the latest and greatest in air to air combat planes. Running a massive Sachs twelve cylinder diesel engine and were faster than any other air combat fighter in the world, with six wing mounted thirty millimetre canon and a six two hundred kilo bomb load. All in all it was deadliest combat aircraft going, but if the Base commander didn't release them soon they would start burning out their engines.
"Tower, Romeo 1, we are heating up out here." DuLac announced.
"Romeo 1, Tower. Hold."
"We are holding Tower, and if you don't release us in the next three minutes I am ordering a stand down."
"Romeo 1, Air Boss, you will wait for orders."
"Air Boss, I will send you the bill for the damage to our engines, one out."
That seemed to make the point and the flight was released not more than thirty seconds later.
"Romeo Flight, taxi to runway thirteen left and wait." The tower announced.
"Roger thirteen left." He open the Squadron channel. "Thirteen left people."
"Romeo 3, Leader, Ribbet you got your lucky socks on?"
"Washed, dried and ironed, Lead." If there was one thing that pilots were acutely aware of, it was their talisman. Flt Lt Ribot had worn the same socks for every combat mission since he left flight school. No one would even consider getting in a plane if Ribbet didn't have his socks on. Same as Flight Lieutenant Emelia Rogers, she had a small weird looking doll hanging from her dash, she called him Trevor, and so it went. Even DuLac had his talisman, there was a red handkerchief his mother had made for him when he left to join the military. The one occasion he forgot the red rag, he crashed and was in hospital for two months. So now there was no way any of the Dire wolves would go into battle without knowing that everyone had their particular good luck charm. He knew that the first thing that Ribot did after debrief was to take off his socks and launder them by hand.
Flight Leader to Wolves, let's get this done." The Reapers moved to the head of the runway and stopped to bring the engines up to speed. DuLac let the brakes off and the fighter rumbled forward gaining speed at an alarming rate. He was used to the amazing ability of the Reapers, it was truly an amazing and quite frightening aircraft. It took less than half the tarmac for the Reaper to claw its way skyward. Each of the pairs circled the base as the rest of the flight took off and joined the flight in formation.
I0 minutes later the squadron was formed up and they headed out over the North Sea, the grey waters of the North Sea were like a washing machine. White caps crashing against each other, it was almost certain death to any pilot that had to ditch this far north. At the first waypoint the squadron banked right and headed for the Brussels coast line. As DuLac looked across his pilots he could tell they were operating on the ragged edge, their formation was far from the usual tight clean formation he loved to see. Not that they were far out, but for the Wolves it was ragged and ugly. He made his mind up then and there he would stand them down for at least two days, and if the Air Boss had a problem, well he could sit in the corner and suck on it. He looked at his chronometre and saw that despite exhaustion and external drop tanks, they were a few minutes ahead of schedule.
"Wolves, Leader. We are three minutes up, time to slow it down and relax for a couple. The Heavies should come into sight in about eleven minutes, they will remain at their ceiling until the last minute. Romeo's 6 through 12 will hang back and play mother hen, I do not want one heavy accosted, do you read me?" He commanded. There was the required responses and the occasionally weird reply, but that was what his people were like, and it was the way he liked them.
"The rest of you, I want all wingmen tight, and when we strafe I want all aircraft at full throttle. It may reduce our time on target, but it will give them no chance to target us."
"Heavies, eleven o'clock." Rogers announced. They were also early.
"Let's get this done people." He ordered.
The Reapers climbed to their max ceiling, with all the added weight it was short of the factory specs, but nineteen thousand was a respectable altitude for a fighter.
"Romeo 1, Whisky Foxtrot 1, are those your bugs flitting around my six o'clock?" Group Captain Ainsley Winters joked.
"Funny I was just about to ask who the fat bastards above us were." DuLac replied as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
"Well that is just a little rude, we have been on a diet, you know?"
"I'm sure all those yorkies you pack away, are completely fat free."
"Very droll, Lance. Very droll." Winters replied. "I have us fifty-six minutes from play time. How do you see it?"
"Agreed Frosty. I will have six of the wolves flying cover for you when you dropped down for your run. I will lead a pathfinder strafe before you and try and mark the way."
"Sounds like a solid plan Lance. G7 {Air Guard Intelligence} have got wind of a new air to air missile, possibly guided. So what you arse, Old Boy."
Roger Frosty thanks for the heads up. Romeo 1 clear." Fucking missiles, I wonder when that fat turd in the main office was going to tell us that. He thought to himself.
Romeo 1 to all Romeo's, Intel has the bad guys packing missiles now, I don't need to tell you how big a threat that makes these people. I want good separation between flights and keep you peepers peeled. One Out."
For the next forty minutes everyone flew in silence, it was their way, they used the quiet time to get their heads in the right place to throw themselves at very nasty people with very big guns. DuLac knew he could trust his people, they had proven time and time again that they were the best in the Air Guard. So far there had been no signs of that bastard Murphy, so things were proceeding as well as he could have hoped. But like so many plans, contact with the enemy tossed them out the window. They were three minutes out from their strafing run when all hell broke loose.
"Vampire, vampire, vampire." Rogers screamed over the Comms. That was the warning call for missiles. "Four o'clock and rising, break, break, break." Reapers darted off in every direction as quickly as they could. The threat was huge, there was no such thing as a glancing blow with a missile, it either missed or it blew you to hell.
"Bogey's four o'clock and rising, looks like a squadron of Vipers." Ribbet called. Vipers were an out dated fighter that the Persian Empire persisted with as they were unable to source any more modern aircraft. While they were no match for a Reaper, enough of them can make any pilots day crappy.
"Alright Wolves, looks like they shot their load of missiles, time to re-educate them on the finer points of combat flying. Pair up and get into it. Tally Ho."
Within seconds the Reapers had paired off and were hunting the older aircraft. DuLac looked over and saw Rogers right where she always was, just to the rear of his left wing.
"Alright Tangles, let's fuck these bastards up."
"On your seven as always, Whisper" Rogers was nick-named Tangles for her innate ability to trip over a spider web and anything of any size or substance, but in the cockpit she was a surgeon. DuLac had earned the nick-name Whisper, as he always talked to his Reaper in a soft calm voice that was almost a whisper when he was in a battle.
They broke and dove on the first two Vipers they saw, the pilots were too focused on a Reaper that was out of their range, mistake one, they didn't have the speed to catch up, mistake two, and they had not bothered with spatial awareness, strike three, you are dead. DuLac splashed the rear Viper and Rogers splashed the front one. The speed with which the tore through the space the Vipers used to be had caused the two behind them to break into each other. Four down. The sky was a maelstrom of planes diving and firing, the wing canon left thin smoke trails as they spat ridiculous amounts of projectiles every second. Every so often the death of a fighter was marked by a large smoke cloud with debris flying off in all directions. DuLac had no time to take in the sight, he had spotted another Viper attempting to swing out and flank one of his pilots.
He pushed the throttle to the stops and headed at the enemy fighter as fast as his Reaper would carry him. Just as he fired a deadly stream of lead at the Viper it let loose with its own fire, the first few missed the Reaper in front, but a line stitched across the fuselage of the Reaper causing it to break hard to avoid the fire. DuLac's own fire was not so badly aimed and smashed directly into the cockpit, he could see blood splatter the canopy like a splash of red paint. The Viper fell out of the action and spun off, no doubt hitting the ground thousands of feet below. He powered over to where the Reaper that was hit was heading round for another go at the Vipers.
"Ribbet, Whisper, are you alright?" He demanded.
"Seem to be Whisper, the bastard got behind me, I don't know where he came from." Ribot replied. But there was something odd in his voice, DuLac had a bad feeling about it and ordered the pilot to head back to Mon Matre Air Base in France.
"I'm ok Boss, let's get back into it." Ribot assured DuLac.
"That wasn't a request Ribot, get yourself back to Mon Matre and don't dawdle. Sartre, escort this pilot back to Mon Matre, and if he gives you any trouble, you have my permission to shoot him down."
Both pilots broke off and headed west at a fairly decent clip, he didn't need damaged fighters trying to hold it together out of some misplaced bravado, or commitment to the squadron.
"Alright Tangles, let's finish these Vipers off and get back on mission."
"Roger that Boss."
The dog fights were intense and there were more than a few close call for the Reaper pilots, but in the end the Reapers were just too superior to the Vipers and the last one met its end five minutes later. The remaining four Reapers made for the target just north of Constantinople, a ball bearing factory that was responsible for forty percent of the bearing used by the Persian Empire. They dove in hard and as fast as the Reapers could stand, pulling the fighters out of the dive with all guns blazing, the canon fire was not designed to cause major damage, but the tracer rounds, with their phosphorus additive caused fires that would act as a marker for the Wraith's as they dropped down for their bombing run. If all went to plan the factory would be nothing but a pile of bricks and burning debris. DuLac and his Reapers flew top-cover as the Wraiths rumbled through loosing their heavy load of five hundred kilo high explosive bombs.
Once the Wraiths passed through, DuLac and Rogers did a semi low fly past to assess the accuracy and the damage done to the factory and the support buildings. A reasonable breeze was blowing at ground level, and the damage was immediately evident. The factory was no more, so many of the munitions had hit the large factory that there really wasn't anything identifiable left, the heavily damaged out building confirm an excellent strike. Once he was satisfied he reported the results to Whisky Foxtrot 1 and then gathered his Reapers and headed for Mon Matre at the best possible speed he could wring out of the engine. He was still troubled by the sound of Ribot's voice when they spoke. As they flew, the feeling got worse and worse. Ninety minutes later he banked in and landed his Reaper on the grass runway, taxiing to the visiting commanders parking bay. He ripped the belts off and leapt out of the cockpit and hit the ground in mid stride. But then he saw Sartre standing outside the ready room, her eyes puffy and tears streaming down her face. He walked up to her but she couldn't speak. He took her in his arms and she all but collapsed sobbing uncontrollably, he did his best to comfort her, but there was nothing he could do. Rogers appeared at his side and took Sartre in her arms to allow DuLac to enter the building and get the full report.
As he burst through the doors he almost bowled over the French Colonel that was headed out to meet him.
"My apologies, Sir. I am Squadron Leader Lancelot DuLac."
"Oui, Sqn Ldr. Please come through to my office." The French Officer asked.
Thank you, but I really would like to see my pilot."
"I understand, but I think we need to sit down and talk about the situation." DuLac heard the sadness in the man's voice and immediately understood this was not the conversation he wanted. They entered the office and sat down, a corporal poured two snifters of Courvoisier and placed them on the desk in front of each man before saluting and leaving the room.
"It is my sad duty to inform you that Flight Lieutenant Ribot was very badly injured and was not able to be saved. My people did everything they could, but the damage was far too great." He explained. "The bullet appears to have hit a weak point in the armour and hit your man in the lower right side. He was strapped in so tightly that the belts stopped the flow almost immediately, but once he released his belts to get out of the cockpit the pressure was released and he was dead before we could get him to the infirmary. I am truly sorry, Sir." The Frenchman was devastated at the loss of the pilot, DuLac could see it in his eyes.
It was like a gut shot to DuLac, Ribot was his second most senior pilot and if truth be told the best he had. It would be a massive loss, not only to him, but to the Squadron. Sartre had formed a very strong bond with the annoying little Irishman, nothing untoward, but they were almost inseparable. DuLac picked up his snifter and raised it.
"Colonel, I give you Dante Ribot, a fine pilot, a pain in the arse and my friend." Both men stood and touched glasses.