GWOT VI - Iron Eagle
Jan. 22nd, 2020 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT VI - Iron Eagle
"Paul Flight, Paul Flight, you are not repeat not cleared for takeoff at this time."
The two F-5s of the Iowa Air National Guard were on 'strip alert', meaning ready to take off at any instant.
The pilots, members of the Iowa ANG, were also of the Church. And they had both gotten a text message on the burner phones they should not have had on them. With coordinates.
The coordinates mapped to the Californian base at the golf club.
The phone buzzed a second time.
URGENT.
"Fuck this," one pilot announced on craft-to-craft, and firewalled his throttles.
The other pilot cursed his mother, the day he was born, God and Jesus and Satan just to cover all the bases, and followed suit.
###
"Spotrep, two F-5s from Idlewyld, bearing 240, fully fueled, underwing ordinance."
###
"Battlespace, I have two tracks, designate Victor 21 and Victor 22, request deconflict."
"Deconflict is negative, I say again negative. Designate tracks Bandit 21 and Bandit 22."
"Copy. Tracking Bandit 21 and Bandit 22. Arrival Point Golf in fourteen minutes."
###
The base was no longer half-abandoned.
It was completely abandoned.
That didn't mean there wasn't anyone around.
So the radio-activated siren on its pole, powered by a solar panel and battery pack, howled anyway.
High low rising and falling tone.
Air raid.
###
As they came into line of sight, the radio beacon message played until the pilots muted the frequencies it was effectively jamming with its bullshit.
"You hear this shit?"
"Yeah. Fuck 'em. All they got is manpack SAMs, if that."
###
The F-5s were doing a nap of the earth approach. Very low, very fast.
Easy in most of Iowa, over wheat and cornfields.
Not so easy approaching low hills and scrub forest.
###
The gunner had the tube over his shoulder. This was one place in combat where size really mattered.
The damn thing weighed over sixty pounds. His alleged assistant gunner couldn't even heft it.
But she could lever it up and brace it on a bipod, if necessary, and the bipod was fitted even if he wasn't using it at the moment.
And she could use the IFF annunciator to verify that no, it was not a friendly nor was it a commercial aircraft.
He let the signal seeker head acquire.
###
A warbling tone filled the F-5 cockpits. THREAT THREAT THREAT.
Immediately the two planes 'broke' left and right, minimizing the probable loss from a single enemy missile launch.
###
Tiger Six did not have control over the AAA missile teams. They knew what they were doing. They knew someone would be checking out Golf One.
Two fast moving fighter jets was within the realm of possibility.
Against one missile team, it might be a somewhat fair fight.
California didn't do fair fights.
California had six.
Not just launchers. Teams. With multiple reloads and even a spare launcher.
###
A burning F-5 garnished Hole 7's sand pit quite nicely.
The gunner was quite proud of himself, dropping it where it would do the least damage on the ground.
###
The second F-5 did an S-curve, spitting defensive flares from the tail, and then fired its afterburner at only 250 feet above the cornfields, running for its life and hammering anyone unlucky enough to be under its flight foot print, as well as shattering windows.
"Paul Flight Leader, Paul Flight Leader, we have been fired upon by California forces. Requesting instructions."
"Return to Idlewyld and land immediately. That is an order."
It never occurred to the pilot to authenticate.
The battle analyst who had been the other half of the conversation made a note, adjusted himself, decided he could spare a minute, and pissed into one of several bottles kept for the purpose. The bottle was passed hand-to-hand and emptied into the recirculation tank.
By any standard this was hard duty. But maybe after the war he'd get to tell the traitor pilot how close he had been to death.
###
The pilot taxied in to be met by his squadron commander and a squad of Iowa State Troopers.
"Get down here!" the squadron commander ordered imperiously.
Only when he was safely away from the aircraft did the State Troopers draw their handguns.
"LIE DOWN ON THE CONCRETE WITH YOUR HANDS AWAY FROM YOUR BODY. DO IT NOW."
They cut his flight suit from his body with EMT shears. He certainly wouldn't ever be needing it again.
Of course the burner phone was found. And of course to have a hope of reading it at supersonic speeds, it was not protected by a PIN.
The squadron commander scrolled through the messages. Handed it to an aide.
He would have to report this to the Governor. What was left of his career would likely depend on the measures he took, right now, to keep this from happening again.
"Paul Flight, Paul Flight, you are not repeat not cleared for takeoff at this time."
The two F-5s of the Iowa Air National Guard were on 'strip alert', meaning ready to take off at any instant.
The pilots, members of the Iowa ANG, were also of the Church. And they had both gotten a text message on the burner phones they should not have had on them. With coordinates.
The coordinates mapped to the Californian base at the golf club.
The phone buzzed a second time.
URGENT.
"Fuck this," one pilot announced on craft-to-craft, and firewalled his throttles.
The other pilot cursed his mother, the day he was born, God and Jesus and Satan just to cover all the bases, and followed suit.
###
"Spotrep, two F-5s from Idlewyld, bearing 240, fully fueled, underwing ordinance."
###
"Battlespace, I have two tracks, designate Victor 21 and Victor 22, request deconflict."
"Deconflict is negative, I say again negative. Designate tracks Bandit 21 and Bandit 22."
"Copy. Tracking Bandit 21 and Bandit 22. Arrival Point Golf in fourteen minutes."
###
The base was no longer half-abandoned.
It was completely abandoned.
That didn't mean there wasn't anyone around.
So the radio-activated siren on its pole, powered by a solar panel and battery pack, howled anyway.
High low rising and falling tone.
Air raid.
###
As they came into line of sight, the radio beacon message played until the pilots muted the frequencies it was effectively jamming with its bullshit.
"You hear this shit?"
"Yeah. Fuck 'em. All they got is manpack SAMs, if that."
###
The F-5s were doing a nap of the earth approach. Very low, very fast.
Easy in most of Iowa, over wheat and cornfields.
Not so easy approaching low hills and scrub forest.
###
The gunner had the tube over his shoulder. This was one place in combat where size really mattered.
The damn thing weighed over sixty pounds. His alleged assistant gunner couldn't even heft it.
But she could lever it up and brace it on a bipod, if necessary, and the bipod was fitted even if he wasn't using it at the moment.
And she could use the IFF annunciator to verify that no, it was not a friendly nor was it a commercial aircraft.
He let the signal seeker head acquire.
###
A warbling tone filled the F-5 cockpits. THREAT THREAT THREAT.
Immediately the two planes 'broke' left and right, minimizing the probable loss from a single enemy missile launch.
###
Tiger Six did not have control over the AAA missile teams. They knew what they were doing. They knew someone would be checking out Golf One.
Two fast moving fighter jets was within the realm of possibility.
Against one missile team, it might be a somewhat fair fight.
California didn't do fair fights.
California had six.
Not just launchers. Teams. With multiple reloads and even a spare launcher.
###
A burning F-5 garnished Hole 7's sand pit quite nicely.
The gunner was quite proud of himself, dropping it where it would do the least damage on the ground.
###
The second F-5 did an S-curve, spitting defensive flares from the tail, and then fired its afterburner at only 250 feet above the cornfields, running for its life and hammering anyone unlucky enough to be under its flight foot print, as well as shattering windows.
"Paul Flight Leader, Paul Flight Leader, we have been fired upon by California forces. Requesting instructions."
"Return to Idlewyld and land immediately. That is an order."
It never occurred to the pilot to authenticate.
The battle analyst who had been the other half of the conversation made a note, adjusted himself, decided he could spare a minute, and pissed into one of several bottles kept for the purpose. The bottle was passed hand-to-hand and emptied into the recirculation tank.
By any standard this was hard duty. But maybe after the war he'd get to tell the traitor pilot how close he had been to death.
###
The pilot taxied in to be met by his squadron commander and a squad of Iowa State Troopers.
"Get down here!" the squadron commander ordered imperiously.
Only when he was safely away from the aircraft did the State Troopers draw their handguns.
"LIE DOWN ON THE CONCRETE WITH YOUR HANDS AWAY FROM YOUR BODY. DO IT NOW."
They cut his flight suit from his body with EMT shears. He certainly wouldn't ever be needing it again.
Of course the burner phone was found. And of course to have a hope of reading it at supersonic speeds, it was not protected by a PIN.
The squadron commander scrolled through the messages. Handed it to an aide.
He would have to report this to the Governor. What was left of his career would likely depend on the measures he took, right now, to keep this from happening again.
