Captain Svetlana Verenskaya eased up on the throttle of her Eagle heavy fighter and began a slow climb to altitude as the abandoned training base came into visual range, just over two kilometres ahead. There were no dust storms here and visibility was near perfect.

She toggled her radio, selecting the squadron frequency. “Diamond Lead to Diamond Flight, pair up and begin CAP in your assigned sectors. Spade Lead, no bogeys on my scope - you are clear to begin your run at the target”.

She heard Spade Lead, Commander Ashley Sharnbrook’s crisp response. “Copy that Diamond Lead. Spade Flight beginning run to target”.

Verenskaya watched as the Tomahawks of Lieutenant Amanda Atkinson and Pilot Officer Warren Freeman paired up and headed east. The Corsairs of Lieutenant Commander Irina Petrova and Pilot Officer Kristian Baumgartner did likewise and headed west. She suddenly became aware of her wingman, Pilot Officer Andreas Carlsson, rising gracefully on her right side, until he was level with her starboard wingtip. He snapped off a smart salute before allowing his plane to drift slightly to the rear and below, where he could cover her six. Together they headed straight on to cover the northern sector. Checking her radar display, Svetlana saw the six blue dots representing Spade Flight approaching from the south.

Aerospace Fighter Zorro,
Inbound Jaguar Base

“Spade Lead to Spade Flight, commence your attacks as soon as you are within weapons range. Target the Calliopes first, then the laser turrets. After that, you can go after anything else that shoots back”. Behind his helmet visor, Ashley Sharnbrook smiled as he listened to their enthusiastic replies. None of them were rookies, but they’d had nothing to do but shoot at practice targets for months and he knew they were itching for some real combat.

He pulled back and to the left on his stick, hauling the heavy Slayer into a shallow, turning climb. His wingman did the same, while the two Lightnings performed the same manoeuvre in the opposite direction, allowing the pair of Gothas, the slowest aircraft in the formation, a clear view of the target.

Used by the RKA as a training facility, the base had not been equipped with a great deal of weaponry. It did however have Calliope turrets situated at each corner of the compound, as well as automated laser turrets at regular intervals along the perimeter.

The Gothas of Lieutenant Sally Murphy and PO Roberto Pirelli opened fire with their PPCs and twin LRM racks, destroying the two nearest Calliopes with their first salvo. They cruised on and repeated the attack on the second pair.

Command Compound,
Jaguar Base

Inside the command centre, Howell watched the enemy fighters press home their attack with relative impunity, their electronic jamming scrambling the turrets’ fire control system. “Switch turret control to remote manual!” he snarled at the Master Technician.

“Aff, Star Colonel!” He gestured at the techs manning the turret fire controls. The turrets were fitted with video cameras, each with a hard-wired link to the command compound. This allowed the techs to visually search for targets. It wasn’t nearly as accurate as the automated system, but it was better than nothing.

Airspace Above Jaguar Base

Suddenly, Murphy and Pirelli found laser bolts flying past their cockpits with much more accuracy than just a few moments before. They tried to pull out of their run, but the Gothas were sluggish aircraft, built more for firepower and endurance than performance. A volley of emerald bolts stitched a line of holes in Pirelli’s fighter, one lucky shot hitting a round in his starboard LRM rack. The missile exploded, setting off a chain reaction. The force of the explosions, as the missiles detonated in quick succession, was mostly vented through the back of the launcher, but shrapnel tore through the rear fuselage, flaps and rudder.

“Lieutenant – I’m hit!”

“Can you make it back?” Shit! Murphy cursed silently. This is all I need.

“Don’t know. I’ll try. Piledriver is bugging out”. The stricken Gotha wallowed, billowing smoke and flame, as Pirelli tried to turn his wounded fighter around using the vectoring thrusters used for manoeuvring in space.

“Okay – I’ll cover you”. Murphy lined up her craft along the base’s forward perimeter, pushed her stick forward and dived at the nearest bank of turrets, firing her PPC and missiles as quickly as the weapons would recycle. Three of the turrets exploded under the fury of her attack. She was pulling her fighter up and around for another run when her craft shuddered from multiple hits. Another four turrets had tracked on her craft and fired several volleys, scoring hits on her Gotha’s vulnerable underside.

Warning lights flashed in her cockpit, telling her of damage to various systems. Most worrying was the damage to her plane’s reactor shielding and heat sinks. “Oh, crap!” she breathed as she scanned the computer’s damage assessment.

Just then another stream of emerald darts, below and to her right, made her look up just in time to see Pirelli’s fighter take another hit in its already damaged wing, which slowly disintegrated.

“Lieutenant, I…” Pirelli’s last words were cut short as the doomed aircraft flipped onto its port side, slamming Roberto’s head against the cockpit canopy, knocking him unconscious.

“Pirelli – punch out!” cried Murphy, knowing even as she spoke her words were futile. She looked away, unable to watch as her wingman’s plane dove in a slow graceful arc, plunging nose first into the ground, several hundred feet below. Its remaining ammunition ignited on impact, consuming the wreckage in an orange and black fireball.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, fighting back the tears that welled up. Taking a moment to compose herself, she radioed her flight leader. “Commander, we just lost Pirelli”.

“Copy that Lieutenant”. Sharnbrook’s voice was tense as he fought his own duel with the turrets.

Her plane lurched and she felt it begin to lose altitude. Jerked out of her grief, she opened her eyes again and scanned her instruments. A plasma leak from the reactor was causing her main thrusters to lose power and overheating the rear fuselage dangerously. “Sir, I’ve been hit pretty bad…I’m gonna have to bail out”.

“Can you make it to the drop site?”

“Uh, I think so”, Mustang replied, checking her position.

“Good luck Sal”

“Thanks, sir”.

Anger at Pirelli’s death had given an edge to Ashley Sharnbrook’s piloting and gunnery. Although heavier than the Gothas, his Slayer was faster and more agile. It also packed devastating weaponry. Retrofitted with twin, wing-mounted large lasers, in addition to the Luxor Class 10 autocannon in the nose, Zorro swept over the banks of laser cannon like an angel of vengeance, turning one after another into blossoming fireballs. Glancing to his left after another run, he saw his wingman, Philippe Robidoux wreaking similar havoc on the opposite side of the base.

Just then, Zorro shook and Sharnbrook heard sharp staccato thuds that sounded like low-calibre autocannon rounds, hitting the port wing and fuselage. Lights flashed on his damage board, one of them indicating his port laser was now inoperative. Ruby laser bolts flashed past his cockpit as he climbed to escape this new threat. “What the hell was that? Anyone see where that came from?”

“The laser tracks are LuftPanzer anti-air tanks. No idea what the others are”, Robidoux panted.

Sharnbrook scanned the sky and found his wingman executing a high-g climbing turn to escape a fusillade aimed in his direction.

“Don’t worry sir, we’re on them”, came the voice of Lieutenant Tohiro Kiguchi. He and his wingman, Suki Mitsune, were among the best attack pilots in the DCMS. The AC20 autocannon originally fitted in the nose of their Lightnings had been replaced with gauss rifles, allowing them to engage their targets at range. They played it smart, lining up their shots, firing and breaking before the tanks could target them. One by one the half dozen or so tracked vehicles exploded as they were cored by the hypersonic, quarter-ton, nickel-ferrous projectiles.

The base fell eerily silent after the frenetic combat of the last several minutes. Sharnbrook surveyed the destruction with grim satisfaction. “Spade Lead to Diamond Lead, looks all quiet now. Our work here is done”.

“Copy that Ash. Good work”. Svetlana hesitated, unsure what to say next. “Ash…I’m sorry about Roberto…he was a good pilot”.

“Thanks Lana…he was a good friend too”.

Verenskaya selected the squadron frequency. “Alright Lucky Sevens, we’re done here – lets head for home”. The remaining aircraft formed up into flights and set course for a return to the Dawn Treader.

About three klicks out from the drop site, Murphy’s Gotha finally gave up the ghost. The computer’s electronic voice spoke. “Warning: reactor core critical. Automatic shutdown in three-zero seconds”. It then began a countdown. At two hundred feet and two hundred and fifty miles per hour, this was not the best time for a reactor failure.