Chapter 34

 

THIRTY-FOUR

The streets of the bazaar we’re packed with shoppers and merchants. A variable sea of people flowed through, passing merchants hawking their wares while interested buyers would haggle for the best price, filling the air with a frantic energy, unique to only a few places. It was the kind of place Zhao was a fan of for an asset extraction, it would be easy to get in, and even easier to get out in the horde.

It wasn’t long after Morgan, Kyle and Trigger had departed that Fick received their mission. Through the Brokers’ channels, the Marines were tipped off to a mid-ranking Sicario within the Machado Cartel who was willing to trade the information he had on some of the organizations Lieutenants for protection and an extraction. Normally, missions like this would be relegated to OIA or other intelligence organizations, but the Old Man and the Broker both wanted their own debrief before handing the sicario over.

“All servants, check in” ordered Fick over the radio net.

Adams replied first “All clear here.” Followed immediately by Dennings “Nothing out of the ordinary here.” Haver and Hernandez we’re next sitting in the Belkan’s helicopter nearby and in full kit in the event reinforcements could be needed, “Cavalry is ready and waiting.” Reported Haver.

Zhao could pick out Fick as he waited nearby, the Lieutenant nodded to Zhao, acting as his closest support in the event the situation turned violent.

Zhao studied the faces of the people passing by, the Broker had given their man a location and time, Zhao checked his watch, a few minutes early but rarely were people on time for these sorts of affairs.

“Yo, Eltee, got someone heading your way. Closing fast” Dennings reported from his position at the entrance of the bazaar.

“You think its him?” interrogated Adams. “Well, frankly no, but he certainly is moving like he’s the guy. Figidty little fuck.” Dennings relayed.

“I got him. Nah, theres gotta be no way.” Adams replied, “Be advised boss, person of interest is carrying something, cant see what it is though.” Adams added.

“Yeah, and a few more guys just showed up. Looks like we have company.” Dennings warned.

“Man, I really wish we had the sniffer drones again.” Adams remarked.

 

Zhao calmly checked his concealed handgun. The Glock wasn’t much but it would be enough to get him out of the immediate engagement zone and closer to where he could reasonably fight back.

 

Fick chimed in “They never did sort out that curry bug, besides, there’s enough other explosives here it would be useless. We just have to take a chance. We’re down two men as is, if this guy looks to be carrying a bomb, I have no problems dropping his ass from the helicopter at altitude.”

 

Well said boss. Zhao thought to himself. His eye caught sight of the man that Adams and Dennings were more than likely tracking.

 

Zhao had dealt with criminal enforcers before, they almost all fit the same backgrounds of violent thugs, or prior military that was looking for a more lucrative paycheck. Their jobs were almost always related to carrying out assassinations, kidnappings, theft, extortion, and acting as the militant arm of their respective organization. The Yuketobanian mafia in particular, went to great lengths to hire current and former Spetznaz within their ranks to ensure their lethality when they went to war with rival organizations.

 

With this knowledge in mind, Zhao could understand his comrades disbelief in the targets legitimacy as one of the dreaded sicario. Unlike the expected muscular, and tattooed individuals Zhao had fought and killed multiple times over, the target was short, past middle aged, balding, overweight and with glasses that were falling down his face as he ran clumsily, almost tripping over passersby. Immediately behind him however was the type of individual Zhao had expected.

 

“Boss…” Zhao growled into his earpiece.

“Yeah, I see them. Let’s get the package and get moving.” Fick ordered, standing up.

“Lancer is enroute Eltee” Hernandez reported.

 

The man ran up to Zhao and stopped, throwing his hands onto his knees.

“Bist du bei dem gesichtslosen Soldaten?” the man wheezed. It was Belkan, a language Zhao only had a passing fluency with, but he understood the gist of the question. The man was the target.

“Jawohl, Du kommst mit” Zhao ordered, grabbing the man by the shoulder and leading him towards the exit.

“Oy! where you taking him?!” barked one of the thugs following the man.

Zhao turned to face the men; he cleared his throat “izvini ya ne govoryu po-idiotski” he said in a thick accent. It wasn’t the most acceptable way of evading trouble, but it worked more times than Zhao liked to admit.

“Whats he saying?” hissed the other thug, the two men towered over the Marine.

Zhao rolled his eyes. “Well, it was worth a shot to play a stupid foreigner.” He could see that Fick had already sprung into action. Zhao turned to see the asset looking terrified.

“Yeah, you might want to close your ears for this next part” Zhao warned the man.

“Or what?” the first thug questioned.

“Well you’re going to lose the top of your skull, that’s pretty loud.” Zhao informed the thug.

The man laughed at the claim “Oh yeah? You gonna do that?” he said, pushing Zhao in the shoulder.

The hollow point entered at the base of the mans skull, blooming out and destroying his brain nearly instantaneously. He collapsed into a heap. The second thug took a step back in shock, not before a second gunshot sent a round into the front of his neck. The thug fell down grasping at his throat in vain as he bled out in the midst of a now panicking crowed.

“We should go.” Fick stated, as he lowered his handgun.

“Exfil thirty seconds out.” Informed Lauren over the radio. Fick and Zhao took the overweight man by the arms and started to rush him towards the exit of the building.

They turned the corner and could see daylight, hundreds of people rushing through the doors, standing above the crowed on a desk was Dennings, UMP-45 in hand waiving them on. He fired a burst over the men’s heads. Zhao glanced back and saw another likely enforcer collapse into the crowed.

 

A low rumble shook dust off the ceiling, and for a moment the sun was eclipsed as the massive helicopter passed low over the building. People scattered for cover as debris was thrown from the rotor wash as the CH-53 landed, two heavily armed gunmen rushing out and clearing the ramp. Zhao held up his arm to shield his eyes from the dust as he passed Haver and Hernandez on the ramp.

“Check his bag!” Fick ordered. Zhao complied as he pulled the mans bag from his hands pulling out a combat knife he cut through the canvas and started to sift through the contents. Cloths, pictures, and a few knick nacks.

Zhao held up a thumbs up. Fick nodded. Within seconds, Dennings, Haver and Hernandez were back on board the Helicopter and they were departing to meet Adams at the secondary rendezvous location.

 

Another win for Basilisk.

***
Trigger opened the door to the airport FBO for Kyle and Morgan to enter. The lobby reminded Trigger of the dozens of fixed base operators he had dealt with as a student flying the T-6 Harvard back in Osea. He could see a few other pilots milling around the lobby, either waiting for instructors or planes to become available. One corner of the room had all the items a hobbyist may need including headsets, charts, snacks, barf bags and even a fuel tester.

 

Trigger could see David had beaten the men here and was already flirting with the girl behind the counter. Trigger tried to make out the exchange but was interrupted by the roar of a Cessna Skyhawk starting up just outside the ramp.  David nodded to the woman and made a shrill whistle to get the Osean’s attention to converge on him. He smiled and parted his arms. “Good morning gents, sleep well?” He opened with.

“Yeah, the Ride here could have been a bit better though.” Complained Kyle.

“What do you want, it’s a town of only a few thousand, not many yellow cab companies to choose from.” David defended himself.

“It was back of a pickup truck driven by a lineman here. Literally anything else would have been better.” Trigger added.

“Oh please. You got here alive, didn’t you?” David shot back

“That’s besides the point!” Kyle retorted.

Morgan held up his hand. “You called us across the continent for a reason. You finally going to share it?”

“Yep, if you gents will follow me.” David instructed as he guided the men into a small conference room. Laid out on the table was three olive drab, Nomex flight suits.

“Looks awfully familiar.” Trigger mused, as he picked up the garment.

“Thankfully you three are about the same size so it shouldn’t matter too much what you get dressed into. Please change into these and get me when you’re ready. Your instructors should be here shortly.” David instructed, closing the door behind himself to give the Osean’s some semblance of privacy.

 

Kyle held the suit in front of him with a puzzled expression. “It’s a onesie?”

“It’s a flight suit obviously.” Morgan replied,

“But, why?” Kyle asked

 

Trigger, thanks to years of practice, had the suit on around his waist by the time the Marines had started.

“Its supposed to cut down on items falling off of you. Hence the zippers all over the place.” He demonstrated with one of the pockets on his legs. “Pens and such can fall out and jam up controls. Mostly just an issue for aerobatics though.” Trigger continued.

Trigger helped the men fumble into their flight suits, and once the three men were dressed, there came another knock on the door.

 

“Don’t worry, we’re modest.” Kyle said jokingly.

 

The first man through the door was Bandog., trailed a second later by a far older man. He wore jeans, a button up plaid shirt, smokey sunglasses and a long since faded yellow ballcap that read Piper in a faux cursive font.

“I see you all can at least dress yourselves. That’s something. Too bad the same cant be said about your ability to stay under the radar.” Bandog remarked.

“What is he?” Kyle asked confused to Morgan and Trigger, before being cut off by Bandog.

“The dumbasses here decided to play hero with the local color, took me a bit of time and money to have to authorities to call off the manhunt for both of you vigilante wannabe’s. I’d appreciate you don’t waste any more of the money and favors I have.” Bandog explained pointedly.

Morgan spoke up “Regardless of that, there’s a reason you wanted us three out here. Mind telling us what it’s for?”

Bandog smirked and cocked his head “I think that’s a better question for Alan here.” He said, introducing the older man who grunted and stepped forward. “Two of yous never been in a high g environment, let alone needed to work in one. We’s fixin to change that.” Alan said, pointing at Morgan and Kyle.

“Wheres that leave me?” Trigger asked.

Alan snorted and sized Trigger up “We’s gonna git you to learn how ta fly of course.” He said in his thick drawl.

 

Trigger laughed at the absurdity. “Hey Bandog, I feel you left some critical information to Obi-Wan here. Such as, I’m already a pilot.”

Alan’s chuckling caught Trigger off guard. “Oh no, I knows about yer training fighter boy. But you’s experienced in them high tech kinda birds. I gots something a mighty bit different fer you ta learn. I trust you can at least read and did the homework I sent along?” Alan asked

“You mean that book? Yeah of course I did that much.”

“Good, then we’ll gets along just fine. Flying them fancy jets gave you some bad habits, We gonna break you of em this week.”

 

Trigger gave Bandog an incredulous look “Bandog, what the hell did you sign us up for?”

Bandog smiled and clasped Trigger’s shoulder. “Relax. It’ll be fun! Honestly, I’d love to stick around and fly with you guys, but I’m most definitely needed elsewhere and have clients to meet and people to kill. I trust you three can stay out of trouble for the rest of the week?” Bandog said cheerfully.

 

The Oseans all murmured to the affirmative.

“Great! Then I’ll be seeing you all in a week. Alan I leave it to you.” Bandog said exiting the room. Alan grunted “If they survive that long.”

“Comforting…” remarked Kyle.

 

“Come along now, if you boys will follow me.” Alan said motioning them out of the room, guiding the three through the beige hallways and offices of the flight school towards the hangar. Trigger noticed all the walls were adorned with various pictures of famous pilots, some military and some civilian, as well as dozens of notable aircraft.

One photo in particular caused Trigger to pause, it was aged and weathered, from what Trigger guessed, it was a Panavia Tornado, adorned alongside the fuselage of the cockpit, barely indistinguishable due to the fading was the blue three-arrowhead emblem of ISAF. Trigger could see in the bottom

2 14 05

 

“Fighter boy! Git yer ass over here please.” Alan said urgently.

“Oh sorry, just looking at the picture here.” Trigger apologized.

“Oh, that. Yeah, ISAF still owes us a ramp fee, shitheads won’t return our calls. Damn ingrates.” Alan mumbled, continuing to lead the men towards the connected hangar.

 

Alan opened the door into the cavernous hangar space. Inside Trigger could see nearly a dozen aircraft packed in tightly together, reminding him of the decks of the OFS Admiral Anderson during his brief time aboard. While many Airplanes looked to only be stored in the hangar for space or weather reasons, others were missing panels and fairings and were in many different stages of repair, including one Cessna that was missing a wing and engine. All the airplanes were being actively tended to by mechanics who looked to have been working diligently on their tasks.

 

Located at the threshold of the hangar doors was two sleek looking aerobatics airplanes. Unlike the T-6’s that Trigger had learned in, and even the other airplanes present within the hangar, these planes were in what the book referred to as a ‘Taildragger’ or ‘conventional’ configuration, where the main landing gear was often in front of the center of gravity, unlike the ‘tricycle’ gear that Trigger and most pilots had come to be accustomed to. The squat and sleek nature made the planes look to him more akin to a sportscar than something used in a training environment.

 

Alan stopped just short of the airplanes, allowing the pilots preflighting them enough space to accomplish their task. Trigger could see that they wore Khaki flight suits with a Velcro patch of the schools logo on their shoulders.

 

Alan cleared his throat. “This gentleman is the Extra 300. She cruises at one-hundred-fifty knots and with two people will pull up to eight g’s. She also bears a 300-horsepower engine giving us all the power in the world to make you boys hurt. And hurt you, we will. She isn’t quite an A-10 but she’ll work for your purposes.”

 

Trigger walked around the perimeter of the planes, studying them intently. Unlike the dark greys of the planes he had flown in the Air Defense Force, These Extras bore brightly colored liveries, and many dazzling patterns that was closer to that of a R.T.Solvalou car than an airplane.

 

Alan pointed to Kyle and Morgan “You twos are going up this week with two of my pilots, Javier and Noah. Listen to them and they’ll keep yous alive. And last thing, try not to puke in the cockpits or you’re cleaning it up.” Alan said.

The Marines nodded and broke off to introduce themselves to their pilots, leaving Trigger alone with Alan.

“So when do we go up?” Trigger asked.

“Oh, right now, but you aint gonna be going up in anything as nice as that. Oh no fighter boy, I got something much better for you to learn in. Follow me.” Alan instructed, making an about face towards the rear of the hangar. Trigger struggled to keep up, ducking and weaving through the various obstacles laid out in the hangar, almost hitting his head on low hanging wings and control surfaces. He led Trigger to a small dirt lot behind the hangar, sitting in the middle was what looked to be an antique by Trigger’s standards.

 

Every inch of the plane was covered in fabric, the paint at one point was a vibrant yellow and dark green along the bottom of the fuselage, but years of abuse had muted the colors significantly. Like with the Extras, the main gear was far forward while a small wheel protruded from the tail, pivoting the airplane up at a slight angle. A faded green badge along the vertical stabilizer read AERONCA in bold letters.

“So, Fighter boy, you ever see one of these before?” Alan asked folding his arms.

“Yeah, in a museum.” Trigger replied.

“Bah! These planes still have their use. Besides, you’re lucky cause we just outfitted her with a battery started motor. No more hand starting.” Alan said.

 

Trigger walked around the plane and gave a cursory preflight. Despite its outward appearance, nothing stood out to Trigger as being out of place or significantly unairworthy, just ugly.

“So how old is it?” Trigger asked.

Alan thought for a moment as he leaned on the wing strut. “Probably around forty-six or so?” he said.

“Oh, that’s not bad.”

“I meant Nineteen-forty-six.”

“Mein gott! That’s older than my grandmother!” Trigger exclaimed.

“What do you want? The Champ doesn’t have anything you didn’t really need anyways. So whats there to improve?” Alan defended.

 

Trigger leaned into the cockpit and held up the lone strap on the seat.

“Well, shoulder harnesses for one.” Trigger replied.

“Wright Brothers didn’t need them.”

“The Wright Brothers didn’t have a lot of things, like Ailerons, I think we can all agree those are good things to have.”

 

“Fine. Whatever you say fighter boy, just help me push the plane onto the ramp when yer done.” Alan replied.

 

Trigger shook his head. “So why exactly do I need a flight suit then?”

“well yer ex-military, thought you’d be for that whole ‘uniformity’ deal.

***
“Riverside Traffic, Extra Charlie-Alpha-Golf departing Two-two-Right. Riverside.” The radio crackled.

Trigger could see Kyle’s head popping above the wings through the glass canopy of the Extra. As he taxied past the Champ, he held up a shaka sign to Trigger. Within seconds of entering the runway, Kyle’s pilot, Javier, added throttle, the engine roared to life and the plane shot down the runway.  Trigger watched the plane climb to his guess one hundred feet, perform an aileron roll before pitching the plane up and departing the traffic pattern.

 

Showoff Trigger thought to himself, grinning.

There was a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey! Fighter Boy, you ready to go?!” Alan shouted over the intercom. Despite the anemic performance of the sixty-five-horsepower engine, it was still uncomfortably loud inside the cockpit. Trigger held a thumbs up.   

He could here a slight hum as Alan keyed the transmit button on the handheld radio tied into the planes intercom. “Riverside Traffic, Champ, Tango-Tango-Yankee, Departing two-two-right, closed traffic.”

“OK, this will be a two-point takeoff, shadow me on the controls” Alan instructed.

 

What followed was an utterly foreign and uncomfortable feeling.

Trigger could feel from the seat of his pants the forces acting on the tiny airplane as Alan danced on the rudder pedals, adding a dizzying number of inputs, while the nose stayed unwavering. The feeling only subsided as the tail came up and the plane lifted off the ground.

 

Trigger sat back as the small plane flew low and slow along the traffic pattern. Trigger leaned out of the door, looking down to the highway below.

“Hey, I think cars are passing us!” Trigger remarked.

“Most likely, we only cruise about seventy!” Alan replied.

Jesus, even the stall speed on the T-6 was faster than that.

 

As the small plane made its way closer to abeam the runways threshold, Alan spoke up again.

“Ok This next one is going to be a three-point landing. Once again shadow me on the controls.” He instructed.

 

Once again, like with the takeoff Trigger could feel the uncomfortably foreign feeling. There was a ever changing sideways lurching the lower the plane got to the runway, progressing further as the planes angle of attack increased, until finally subsiding as the wheels hit the pavement and returning to the present but less noticeable forces.

Alan taxied the plane off the runway and made a radio call.

“Ok Fighter Boy, you think you wanna try that?” He asked Trigger.

“Sure!” Trigger said excited.

“Perfect. Your airplane.”

***
Trigger laid down on the pavement. His peace being shattered as Kyle loomed over him.

“So how was it?” Kyle asked.

Trigger grimaced “Well, I didn’t get us killed if that’s what you’re asking. But I haven’t felt that behind the airplane since I was a nugget.”

“Well Im sure you’ll get it eventually. We didn’t do so hot either, but at least I didn’t throw up, so I’ll take the win where I can get it.” Kyle replied.

“Hear hear.” Trigger replied halfheartedly.

 

The post flight debrief Alan put him through was not the worst hotwash of his career but the sting to Trigger’s ego as a pilot hurt all the same.

Morgan cleared his throat from behind the two men. “Beast thing to do is to come back tomorrow and try again.”

 

“Hey Gunny, get the plane cleaned?” Kyle asked, earning a glare from Morgan. “You know, they say us Marines are supposed to be green, but I don’t think its supposed to be literal.” Kyle added jokingly.

“Sergeant” Morgan started slowly.

“Yes Gunny?” Kyle replied sarcastically.

“Shut up” Morgan ordered.

***

 

The room was dark and uncomfortable by design. Only a single light hung from the ceiling over a metal card table. Sitting at the center of the room at the table was an uncomfortable looking middle-aged man, who nervously gave glances to the edge of where the light illuminated to see the other men in the room.

 

“Mister Paul Hess. Age, Forty-four. Grew up around Dinsmark, middle of the pack at Hoffnung Tech, but still managed to score a respectable job at Grunder for a time. Looks like your addiction got the best of you and you took up employment elsewhere, is that correct?” David interrogated, as he read the OIA dossier.

“Entschuldigung, ich muss mit dem –“ The man said hesitantly.

Bandog rolled his eyes, “Cut the shit Paul. I know damn well that despite your nationalistic boner, you can speak common.” He closed the distance, walking past a bemused looking David. Stepping into the light, Bandog gave Hess a hard stare.

“Frankly, I think you’re a piece of dogshit that would be much better served rotting in a ditch. But unfortunately for us both, you have information I need, and you also happened to grow a conscience since your actions with some very unsavory people back in 2010. So, as long as you playball, we’ll be best of friends, and I will help keep you alive long enough to get you in the hands of a few very excited Osean Attorney Generals. Otherwise? I have no qualms about dropping you off on the doorstep of the Capos you work for with a little pink bow on your head for good measure. Capeesh?” Bandog threatened.

 

The man’s lipped quivered for a moment, he swallowed to compose himself, Looking Bandog directly in the eye.

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

***

“Ok Trigger, I’ll leave this one up to you.” Alan said.

Trigger held up three fingers

“Three-point landing it is, take us home.” Alan replied.

 

It had been a week since Trigger arrived. In that time Alan had run him through every type of landing Trigger thought possible short of carrier qualification in the 7AC Champ. Today was the final day of instruction and the day for Trigger and the rest of the Oseans to return to Chopinburg.

 

Kyle and Morgan had both finished their airborne training and additional ground classes with operating a sensor suite aboard a Counter Insurgency aircraft. Kyle more particularly was fond of regaling Trigger with tales of his aerobatic flights to learn how to be a good ‘back seater’ whereas Morgan was less talkative about his time.

 

Trigger keyed the radio.

“Riverside Traffic, Champ Tango-Tango-Yankee for the overhead break.”

It was an ultimately pointless exercise, but Trigger wanted to try it all the same.

As he would in the Eagle, he got what he was comfortable with for a break point, banked the Champ over into a slightly aggressive bank and using full throttle to keep the plane level.

On the downwind leg, he took a bit of throttle out until he hit the base leg, idling the throttle, he rolled once again and bled off both speed and altitude, rolling from the 180 degree turn on runway heading, but above his targeted glide path. Trigger looked at the windsock, and dropped the nose of the aircraft slightly, while adding some left aileron and right rudder to ‘slip’ the airplane, only correcting once he saw the glide return to normal.

 

The feeling that once unnerved Trigger now was as natural as breathing through an oxygen mask, a present force in his mind but nothing as uncomfortable as it was the first time. He effortlessly guided the plane onto the runway, allowing the wheels to hit just at the ‘captains bars’.

“And that’s the way you do it Fighter boy!” Alan shouted clapping. “Now taxi us to that hangar over there” Alan ordered.

The hangar was on the outskirts of the Airport property, Trigger cut the engine and exited the plane.  

Gathered at the hangar was the Oseans, their instructors, Bandog, and David.

“Am I supposed to get hosed down? I don’t think that counts as a Fini-flight” Trigger remarked.

Bandog stepped forward and shook his head. “Not today, we’re just celebrating that you three dumbasses survived. Plus, I have a gift for you to take back home.”

“A Gift?” Trigger asked.   

Bandog motioned for Trigger to come closer and shoved a large controller for a hangar door in his hands.

After the gathered group stood clear of the door, Trigger pressed the button and opened the door.

 

It was a five bladed turboprop, painted in a dark grey. Underslung on the central hard point was a targeting pod and multiple other hard points adorned the wings.

Trigger looked into the hangar. "You gotta be shitting me"

Bandog chuckled "Nope."

"No Seriously... This is a bad joke."

"It’s not"

"But Look at it!"

"I am. Jesus you’re ungrateful you know that?"

"It’s a piece of farm equipment! How the fuck do you think I’m going to feel?" Trigger shouted, raising his arms in the air for effect.

"And do you know how much this piece of 'farm equipment' costs? Not cheap, I can assure you." Bandog replied.

"Yeah, and you know what also costs a lot of money? A John Deere." Trigger pressed

"Oh, you’re such a baby. This AT-802 is the newest and finest of Close Air Support aircraft on the market!"

"And what does 'AT' Stand For? I’m willing to bet it’s not 'anti-tank' or anything cool like that" Trigger interrogated.

"Uhh, the manufacture I believe." Bandog replied

"And that manufactures name?" Trigger pressed

Bandog mumbled something under his breath. Trigger held his hand up to his ear "I didn't quite catch that, mind repeating it?"

"Air Tractor... it stands for Air Tractor... God you’re such an asshole." Bandog relented.

"You do know I’m a fighter pilot, right? This is just downright insulting." Trigger complained

“Well, if it’s any consolation, its adopted name is Longsword.” Alan added.

 

Bandog slung an arm around Triggers neck and pulled him close enough to speak in a low growl

“And remember, right now, you’re a wanted criminal. And your payment for me busting you out of that hangar and these guys keeping their mouths shut to Osea is you running Close air Support for them in this 'farm equipment' as you so eloquently described."

Trigger held up his finger, but then stopped himself. "Ok But... Fine that’s true I guess." he gave up.

Bandog released Trigger smirking in smug satisfaction "So, are you even going to look in the cockpit? You’re going to have to ferry this home with Morgan you know.”

 

“Joy.” Trigger muttered.

 

He put his hands on his hips, surveying the plane before him.

“Well can you do me one favor at least?” Trigger asked Bandog,

“Depends on the favor.”

“I’m going to need some paint when I get back to the homestead.”

“Cool, I have four days to get it by my math. Have fun you two. Your departing tomorrow.” Bandog said

“Until then, lets party!” shouted one of the flight instructors.

Chapter 33

 

THIRTY-THREE

Trigger groggily rubbed his eyes as he moved forward in the busy security line. He checked his watch 0830.

“Well, you know they say to get to the airport at least three hours early.” Sergeant Kyle said behind him.

Trigger yawned. “Yeah, but generally that doesn’t involve a dust off at oh-dark-thirty.” Trigger shot back

“Quiet!” ordered Morgan.

 

In reality, It had only been three thirty in the morning when Kyle had woken Trigger up. The pilot was still half asleep and barely comprehended the request to grab his “Fight tonight” bag and to meet at the runway. As he was getting out the front door, a large cargo helicopter, what looked to Trigger to be a Sea Stallion, landed on the runway, throwing a cloud of dust every direction from the massive rotor wash. By the time Trigger had made it to the helicopter, Morgan and Kyle had taken their seats and the moment Trigger was secured by a gruff sounding, Belkan speaking crew chief, they had once again departed into the darkness. As Trigger would be briefed, the three men were being moved to the Rigley region and would be briefed further there.

A three-hour Helicopter ride deposited the men at a small civilian airport outside Artiglio, where a taxicab took them to the dusty commercial airport, near the mouth of the harbor. Kyle had disappeared with the three men’s luggage briefly before returning. Trigger was unsure how he would manage to get their bags through security considering concealed within almost all of them was some form of body armor, handgun and ammo. When questioned however Kyle and Morgan both dismissed the concern.

 

Trigger surveyed the desolate airport terminal. The region was a dust filled hellscape in its better days, but with the construction of the ISEV, coupled with the war destroying their oil refineries, any hope in Artiglio being the glowing jewel of the southern deserts had evaporated. Trigger wondered how long it would be before the city would be retaken by the sands, like those he had seen in Erusea along the Whiskey Corridor.

 

Eventually the Oseans reached the Security desk.

 

Morgan quickly produced his documentation and was waived through. Next was Trigger’s turn. He handed over his ID and ticket to the security Agent. As she verified the information on both, Trigger studied the checkpoint. In one corner stood watch three IUN Soldiers, their uniforms all differing but wearing the same dark sage beret of the IUN Security Forces deployed all over Usea. Two of the soldiers were from San Salvacion judging from their mottled brown and tan uniforms and SG 550 assault rifles, while the most senior of the three stood out as a Bulgurdarestian soldier, Outfitted in a dark green digital camouflage uniform and SCAR rifle.

“And Mister Helmutkraft, did you enjoy your stay in Artiglio?” The Agent asked, making small talk.

Trigger regained his bearings. “Yes, wonderful town. Interesting culture.”

“Oh, have you been here before?” The agent asked.

“Yeah, twice but the atmosphere was a bit different.” And filled with AAA. Trigger thought to himself.

The Agent smiled and returned his documents “I see, well I hope you return soon.”

Trigger thanked her and entered the main passenger concourse of the terminal. In the discussion he had lost sight of Morgan and was equally lost on where to go for their gate.

 

Trigger stood around searching before Kyle hit him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get going.”

“Yeah, but I lost Morgan.”

“Don’t worry about that. He’s gonna catch up.” Kyle said, walking off down the hallway.

Trigger ran briefly and caught up to the Marine.

“Is it normal for you guys to just run off in weird places alone like this?”

“It’s unusual if we don’t. Morgan is just getting our carry-ons. Best thing we can do is just wait for him at the gate.”

“Wont security notice?”

“Notice what? Theres gotta be a few hundred refugees fleeing through this airport. No one is gonna notice three guys who are slightly worse armed then the rest of the uniformed military here.”

“Fair point I guess.” Trigger replied dejected. The two Oseans found the passenger waiting area and took a seat. The hard plastic was hell on Trigger’s tired back and was only marginally better than the net seats on the interior of the Belkan Sea Stallion.

 

Minutes passed before Morgan caught up to them, tossing both men their duffel bags. Trigger unzipped the main pocket and discretely checked the contents. He was surprised to see his Kahr CW9 handgun was right where he had left it in its carry holster, along with the soft body armor vest tucked between the multiple days of cloths and toiletries.

 

“So what time is our flight?” Trigger asked.

Morgan pulled out the ticket. “Thirteen hundred.”

“Dammit.” Trigger groaned leaning back in the uncomfortable chair.

Trigger felt something land in his lap. The book was old and faded, the cover torn at places. It was a bright, nearly piss yellow color with dark green text and a crude depiction of an airplane on the cover.

 

THE COMPLEAT TAILDRAGGER PILOT

Trigger looked up to Morgan who had threw the book.

“What the hell is this?”

“Reading material for the flight. Since you were taking your sweet time getting to the helicopter this morning, the Crew of the helo gave it to me for safe keeping. Gift from your buddy the Broker.”

“Dammit Bandog.” Trigger muttered as he thumbed through the first few pages. It was a collection of notes from an older pilot about the mythical ‘Taildragger’ style of airplane and that pilots maxims on the subject of flying them.

 

The book only being around two hundred and fifty pages was a short read, Trigger burning through half of it by the time the boarding call was made for their flight to Expo City. Their ride was a worn looking Air Usea Boeing 737. As Trigger walked out to the jet and made his way through the path marked by stanchions, he could see the glint of the aluminum tape adorning multiple panels of the plane.

“Hey, is that engine duck taped on?” Asked Kyle as he climbed up the stairs onto the jet.

“Nah, Speed Tape. And it looks just to be the fairing.” Replied Morgan.

“Really? Is that right Trigger?” Asked Kyle. Trigger shrugged

“Yeah, we probably wont crash if that falls off anyways.” Trigger replied dryly.

“Great… just filling me with confidence guys.” Kyle said deflated.

***

Morgan stared at the overweight Customs Agent in silent contempt. Out of general principal he hated most bureaucrats, especially those who had a knack for asking too many questions with a margin of authority behind their name.

The man looked up lazily at Morgan, “Name?” he asked.

“Arthur Collins” Morgan replied. The agent squinted at Morgan with his beady eyes. Morgan hated it and a part of him wanted nothing more than to smash the fat bastards face into the desk.

“What brings you to Expo City Mr Collins?” The Agent asked. “Business Training.”

“What line of business?” The man interrogated.

“Defense related mostly.”

“How long will you and your party be staying?”

“Two weeks. Should be in the documentation.” Morgan replied, annoyance in his voice.

Behind him he could hear Trigger and Kyle idly chatting, it was the best option since Trigger was liable to say the wrong thing and make the situation that much harder, and Kyle was just as likely to actually break the mans nose for asking the intrusive questions.

 

“So it is.” The man said dismissively as he scrutinized all the passports, visas, and other forged documents in front of him.

“Is there anything you will want to be declaring at this time gentlemen?” The Agent asked.

“No.” replied the three men of varying intensities. While technically a lie, none of them were wanting to declare the various handguns, armor and explosives concealed within their luggage.

With three kerchunks of the entry stamps the man smiled and handed the documents back to the three Oseans. “Well Mister Collins, Rockwell and Helmutkraft, I do hope your stay in the FCU is a pleasant one.” The Agent said cheerfully as he ushered them away.

As the three men entered the crowded main hall of the Expo City airport, Morgan surveyed the surroundings. As Fick had explained to him that morning, someone from the Broker’s staff would be coming to meet the men and take them the rest of the way to Rigley. As Glen lead the two other men towards the exit, one individual caught his attention.

To the untrained eye, He looked no different than any other business traveler, He was wearing a suit and sunglasses, and aside from his slight muscular build he wouldn’t have warranted a second thought. It was the same reason why it made Morgan’s hair stand on end. He cautiously approached the man.

Morgan approached the man cautiously.

“David?” He asked bluntly.

The man smiled. “Faktisk” Indeed. The man replied. Morgan recognized the language as Nordenovician, and a locals accent if his hunch was correct. “Mister Morgan I trust your flight was satisfactory?” The man continued.

“Well, the pilot certainly found the runway.” Quipped Trigger.

“Yeah, I think my ass hit the ground before the wheels did.” Whined Kyle. To his credit the landing was rougher than most, but still paled in comparison to an actual crash.

David laughed at the comment. “Well, I’m pleased to tell you the car is waiting, it will be another few hours however before we arrive to the Hotel, I hope that’s Ok. If you gentlemen will follow me.” He said cordially.

 

The four men road in an uncomfortable silence along the road. The sun had long since set when they stopped for gas and food. As Trigger and Kyle returned with a grease-soaked bag of fast-food hamburgers, David finally spoke up.

“So, you all know the situation for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Not at all.” Replied Trigger his mouth full of french-fries.

“The Helo crew and the Lieutenant we’re not forth coming with details which tells me either A, we wont like it or B, your boss didn’t tell them either.” Morgan replied pointedly.

David paused to swallow his food and nodded his head.

“The Boss has you three set up with a flight school tomorrow. They’re all read in on the situation and will know you by your aliases. Once there, Morgan and Kyle will go through basic indoc on high g environments with aircraft then learn how to be a back seater. Trigger, you will be learning how to fly a smaller COIN aircraft.” David explained.

“I mean I already am a pilot; how hard could it be?” Trigger replied.

“Tell me that again tomorrow evening Trigger.” challenged David.

“Well how much more driving do we have?” asked Kyle.

“Not much, just another hour to the Motel, Airports only fifteen or so minutes away.” replied David.

“Rigley’s more than an hour away. So, we aren’t going to Rigley then.” Morgan noted.

David paused for a moment in thought. “Whoops.”

***
The town they had stopped in was reasonably small and seemed that its only major purpose was that it happened to exist along the main highway. By the time the Osean’s had pulled in, most of the businesses in its downtown district had closed, not to say anything about the few retail stores that we’re nearby. Kyle, Morgan, and Trigger waited in the suburban as David checked them into their rooms. From Trigger’s position in the vehicle, he could see the attendant hit the stereotype of the ‘guy who never left his hometown’ down to a tee. Moments later he returned to the car and handed each man a key.

“Ok Kyle your 201, Trigger 202, and Morgan 203, You gents get some rest. I’ll be by at nine o’clock to take you to the flight school. You need anything else while I’m here?” David offered.

“No, the 7-11 still open?” asked Trigger.

David paused for a moment. “Probably.  But try not to go out if you can’t help it. No idea who may be sniffing around even these parts.”

Morgan grunted “Noted.”

“Good night.” Kyle waived.

 

It was just past midnight when Trigger had silently shut the door behind him. He tried to dress the most ‘normal’ way he could, wearing a hoodie and jeans, he made his way the block to the convenience store across the street from the motel. Trigger chuckled, remembering his time as a student as he walked into the tiny convenience store.

Inside was much of what he expected.  Unlike in Osea however, most of the signs we’re written in both Common, and a local language that Trigger couldn’t understand. Along the shelves was dozens of brands of snack cakes and chips. Trigger marveled at the brightly colored packaging, despite only having been out of what he considered ‘normal’ life for a handful of weeks. He learned to miss the small and insignificant things all the same.

 

In one corner, a Slurpee machine whirred noisily as it mixed the brightly colored drinks. Trigger shrugged and went to the rear of the store to the refrigerator and pulled out a few sodas to keep in his room.

The door chimed as more customers walked in. Trigger looked over his shoulder and could see they we’re a pair of teenagers, they wore torn and baggy cloths and appeared to be the kind of people Trigger tended to avoid if he could help it. Just incase he patted his pocket. Snuggled securely in its holster was his Kahr pistol, Hopefully I won’t need those drills Zhao had me practice. Trigger thought to himself.

Trigger grabbed a few snack foods and wandered to the magazine stand. Under normal circumstances, Trigger wouldn’t have paid any attention to the tabloids. His only knowledge of them was that he learned through osmosis from talking with Cossette, who reveled in what they would often make up regarding her or other influential people she knew.

Trigger found one magazine he recognized, Expo Weekly. The cover was a sensationalized depiction of two celebrities Trigger was only tangentially aware of through seeing the movies he and Cossette watched, someone had someone else’s child and the drama that ensued.

Not even a word on the massive terrorist attack? Time marches on I guess. Trigger thought as he flipped through the pages. Not finding anything of interest he continued his thumbing through of magazines.

He then pulled out a Bana City Express. Unlike the tabloids, Express generally was a reliable news source. The first handful of articles we’re on local Osean matters, concerns with political parties and campaigns, all stuff beyond Trigger’s paygrade or interest. He paused when he found what he was looking for. It was a paparazzi shot of Cossette, the article title reading What’s Next for the Embattled Princess?

Trigger started to read until he caught a glimpse of his watch. 0034.

Shit. He thought to himself as he stood up and could see the event unfolding in front of him.

 

The cashier had his hands raised and was cowering behind the counter. One of the teenagers had a handgun pointed at him, as another ransacked the cash register. It took them a minute to notice Trigger standing there.

The thug holding the gun leveled it straight at Trigger. “Yo, what the fuck are you looking at?” he spat.

“Come on, rob his ass too so we can get out of here!” urged the thug behind the counter.

The armed thug closed the distance, Trigger raised his hands slightly.

“Ok, watch, and wallet.” The thug ordered.

“Why would I do that?” Trigger asked. Who the fuck says that? He shouted internally.

His eyes darted between the gun, the thug holding the gun, and the thug behind the counter. He couldn’t tell if the one behind the counter was armed. He weighed his options, If he could bat the thugs handgun away, he would have a chance to pull his own and possibly scare them away.

However, it would lead to drawing local authority attention, something that both David and Morgan had warned Trigger about avoiding.

“Are you stupid? Watch. Wallet. Now!” The Thug ordered pushing the handgun towards Trigger.

There was another chime. Followed by a gunshot. The Thug behind the counter collapsed, screaming in pain.

“Yeah, he is a dumbass. Now get the fuck out of here.” Barked the interloper. Trigger leaned past the Armed thug to see Morgan, in his hands was the same pistol he had threatened Trigger with when they had first met.

The armed thug turned around and started to raise his arm. Morgan held up his finger.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you. Now forty-five might not be all its cracked up to be now a days, but I can tell you for certain, that if you raise your piece to me, I will make sure you don’t have an open casket. Now Get!” Morgan said forcefully. The Thug nodded and started to make his way to the exit.

“he fucking shot me man!” cried the second thug, clutching his arm, blood oozing from his fingers. He grabbed the bag of money from the floor and started to exit. Morgan snorted and turned to the men “Leave it.”

“Fuck you man!” hissed the thug.

Trigger couldn’t see what exactly Morgan had done, but it was enough that the thugs complied and ran out of the store. The marine turned his attention to Trigger. “What the fuck did we tell you?”

“Not to leave.” Trigger mumbled.

“Not to leave! Let’s just hope that was the local flavor of idiot and not something we will have to worry about. Come on, lets go!” Morgan barked. Trigger nodded, taking his items to the countertop. The shaken-up clerk slowly stood up and took the counter. Morgan waited impatiently by the door. “Did you hit the panic button?” Morgan asked the clerk. The young teenager nodded frantically.

“Fine then. Just take the stuff and go.” Morgan ordered Trigger.

“But that’s stealing.”

“Who cares? You-“ Morgan pointed at the clerk. “-He’s taking that stuff, just say those two idiots we’re the ones who stole it. Also, we weren’t here.” He ordered. The Clerk nodded frantically.

“Come on, lets go.” Morgan urged, ushering Trigger from the store.

 

“Follow me.” Morgan said as they crossed the parking lot.

“Look I’m sorry” Trigger apologized before Morgan cut him off.

“I don’t care. We just can’t make a direct path back to the motel. Follow me and shut the hell up.” Morgan ordered.

Chapter 32

 

THIRTY-TWO

Lieutenant Commander Bill Adkinson entered the squadron ready room on the OFS Barbet. The ready room normally was one of the more raucous locations on the ship, the ‘Paladins’ we’re known more for their less professional behavior off-duty than the Barbet’s CAG, Captain ‘Nonner’ Caggiano generally preferred. Today the energy in the room was different. For the past two weeks, the deck of the Barbet was frantic with a constant string of training sorties in and around the Chopinburg region of Usea. The men of the 7^th Carrier Air Wing we’re not unfamiliar with the region, every squadron had tasted combat in the waning days of the war and the paint was only just drying on many of the tallies that adorned their canopy rails of the kills they had scored. These missions however had been different. Unlike a standard Combat Air Patrol, the men were advised to retreat at the first challenge or hint of trouble. However, the ships intelligence officer’s refused to elaborate on what that trouble could be, just relying on the flight leader’s judgement.

 

It was gnawing at the end of each pilot’s psyche; rumors were spreading through the staterooms and berthing spaces on what was next. As a result, the energy in the ready room was electric, though the normally rowdy behavior of the pilots was subdued significantly.

 

At the head of the room stood the Squadron commander, Commander ‘TK’ Williamson who waited for the room to settle. He gave a signal to the Deputy Commander standing at the rear of the room to lower the lights and he began the briefing. On one wall was a Chart of the Chopinburg area the Air Wing had become intimately familiar with.

“Gentlemen” TK began. “I am happy to report that we will finally be given a combat mission to end this cruise off. The Admiral has given us the greenlight on Operation Catfish, as designated and designed by the CAG, myself and the other squadron commanders.”

“Is that why you’ve had us busting our ass this entire week?” spoke up one of the Pilots.

“Indeed, it is. Starting at nineteen hundred Usea Central Meantime, fighters from the Seventh Air Wing will depart Northbound and into the Chopinburg region. Entering two holding points, Emily and Whitney, you will group up with Tanker Aircraft from the Air Defense Force. From here we will break off into individual sections. ‘Bait’, ‘Spear’ and ‘Hook’.” TK explained, pointing at two racetrack patterns that appeared a hundred miles inland.

“Hate to be on ‘Bait’ flight.” Remarked one of the Hornet pilots.

“We will get to that. Two aircraft from our squadron will make up ‘Bait’ flight and will enter our Killbox 2-Bravo at initial Point Mercedes. From there they will fly a standard patrol pattern, with steer points of avenger, bearcat, corsair, dauntless, emil, and exiting the killbox with a heading of 180 at point fireball.” As TK spoke, a series of dots appeared on screen with the associated names. Bill could see it was laid out in a sloppy search pattern. They would be seen, but likely wouldn’t find anything.

 

“We expect our ‘Bait’ flight to be engaged around point dauntless, from there, on the order of the AEW aircraft, Spear and Hook will engage and take out what ever bandits are stupid enough to show up.”

“What are we expecting?” chimed in one pilot.

TK paused, “That’s the thing. We don’t know.”

There was an outcry of pilots in the room.

“What the hell do you mean you don’t know!?” shouted Bill. This time, one of the Barbet’s intelligence officers took the stage, Lieutenant Junior Grade Itami. He motioned for the room to quiet down. He stuck out like a sore thumb as the only person wearing his naval khaki uniform in a sea of olive drab Nomex flight suits.

“What Commander Williamson means is that this is a part of the mission. A ‘Reconnaissance-in-force’, if you will. What we are facing is entirely an unknown to us. Could be drones, could be some guy in a biplane whose been getting lucky. What we do know is that there is likely some electronic warfare at play, but we’re not leaving Bait, or any of the other flights out there with their asses exposed; Spear’s entire mission is to protect the Growler’s from VAQ-137. The Rooks will handle electronic countermeasures which should buy Bait enough time to egress, and the Tomcats and Hornets in Hook to bag whoever these assholes are.” Itami said, placating most of the pilots.

“Ok, so what else is in the frag then?” spoke up another pilot.

***
Bill stepped onto the aircraft elevator. The flight deck was already chaotic with crews running around prepping aircraft for launch. A Sailor in a blue jacket looked over the two F/A-18E Hornets on the elevator briefly, and ran over to the control box, the Elevator lurched upwards, carrying the pilots, and jets up onto the deck. The trip up three decks to the flight deck took only seconds and gave Bill a sickening feeling in his stomach. He looked over to his wingman, Lieutenant ‘Devil’ Godfroy, to see if his feeling of malaise was shared.

 

The two men had been assigned to the ‘Bait’ flight. First pilots into the mission area and, as their name implied, would be used as a lure to draw out whoever was shooting down jets. Though Itami didn’t say, all the pilots on the ship were aware of the situation. Between Osea and the IUN nearly half a dozen jets had gone missing in the region, believed to have been shot down. After the recent attacks in Erusea, no one was sure if it was just splinter Radical elements that didn’t die with the rest of their organization or a third party entirely.  

 

Bill walked under the port side of the jet and pressed the ladder release under the fuselage faring, he clambered up the ladder and started to strap himself into the jet. As he was preparing himself, he could see a multi-colored swarm of deck crew descend on his jet. By the time he was ready to start his startup checklist, the plane captain, dressed in a brown jacket, had signaled to him that the deck crew was cleared and had moved onto other jets.

 

As Bill and Devil started their fighters, they we’re towed to the catapults forward of the ship. Already Tomcats from the Gunmen squadron we’re departing to take up a station above the Carrier Strike group as apart of ‘Sinker’ flight. Bill smirked as he heard the Tomcat pilots complaints when they stepped out to the jet. It reminded Bill that despite his lot in the operation, there was still worse missions to be had.

 

The Tomcats departed with a deafening roar, and like that, it had become Bait’s turn to depart. The Yellow vested aircraft handling officer motioned for where Bill and Devil needed to taxi, Bill taking the starboard catapult while Devil took the port side. Following the directors guidance, he had hooked up to the catapult with a click as the launch bar fell into place on the shuttle. The shooter gave him the thumbs up, to which Bill gave a brief salute and pushed the throttles into afterburner. Within seconds, Bill was forced back into his seat as the Barbet’s steam catapult engaged, with a rolling, the Hornet was accelerated within seconds to one hundred seventy knots, literally being thrown airborne and off the deck of the ship.

 

He was dedicated to the mission from this point forward.

***

“Paladin 3-2 crossing corsair.” Bill reported.

“Copy 3-2, Scope is clean” replied the Airborne Early Warning aircraft surveilling the two Hornets as they crossed through the airspace.

The mission had been going smoothly. The two F-18 Hornets were in a combat spread, Devil was a mile off his wing and a thousand feet above him. The two pilots were constantly checking their surroundings and internal sensors just looking for something, anything, that might indicate their target took the bait.

The E-2C Hawkeye’s radar officer had been unusually proactive with reporting activity around the Paladin’s jets. Unfortunately, the accuracy of the onboard radars was generally less than stellar, with targets only appearing for a fleeting minute until disappearing. The Only excitement the two having was a routinely scheduled airline flight blundering within a few miles of the operation’s airspace.

Nothing but us and the sky. Bill thought to himself.

 

They were crossing the dense jungles of inner Usea. It was a sharp contrast of the arid and lifeless landscape of the Artiglio Port region only a hundred miles before it. As Bill made his way over the canopies, he couldn’t help but wonder how many jets, just like his own, the Rain Forest had consumed.  Prior to the Ulysses landfall, there was a handful of military bases, many of which had been left abandoned following the impact and subsequent Erusean occupation. Striking images of Tomcats and Harriers, only left alone for half a decade, being entirely reclaimed in vines and vegetation in unrecognizable hangars and shelters.

 

“Bill, I have something on my scope.” Devil reported. Bill looked down to his Radar, for a moment he saw a target too.

“Yeah, I saw it too. Wolfman, did you see something?” Bill asked the Hawkeye, bearing the callsign of ‘Wolfman’.

“Negative Paladin, picture is clean from our vantage point.” The Radar Officer replied.

“Copy” Bill replied unsatisfied.

 

“Do I need to get my fangs out?” asked Devil.

Bill thought for a moment. “Keep an eye out but let’s wait ‘til we’re sure it’s not a friendly.”

Theoretically, the airspace was clear. However, Bill had heard multiple reports of blue-on-blue shootdowns in the war from relying on onboard IFF transponders. A rumor had even spread that had one gaff not occurred, then the war could have been ended months earlier when an Osean Viper shot down an incorrectly identified Osean Army Chinook. A dozen Osean Army, and Erusean conservatives were killed because of a mistake. Bill was not keen to be the one pulling the trigger on another just like it.  

 

Bill adjusted the radar. It was once again empty. He switched the MFD to the Situational Awareness display, and only saw the data linked targets of Devil, The Hummer’s, and other Carrier aircraft waiting outside the killbox.

Maybe they know it’s a trap? He questioned.

 

“Devil, do you have anything on your scope?”

“Negative, wasn’t able to track it.” Devil replied.

“Ok, just keep your head on a swivel. Don’t want to be surprised out there.”  

“Two.” Devil replied simply.

 

“Paladin 3-2, Wolfman, Pop Up group, zero-three-eight, forty miles closing.” The Radar officer reported.

“Copy. Confirm type?”

“Unknown, they just dropped off again, wasn’t able to get altitude, Speed was tracked at four hundred knots.” The Officer replied.

“So, a fighter then? How many?” Devil asked.

“Wish we knew Paladin 3-3, They just dropped off as soon as they came up.”

Bill did the math in his head. Whatever Wolfman had picked up, was within the Killbox. They were also only halfway to the expected engagement location of waypoint dauntless.

“Wolfman, are we free to engage?” Bill asked.

“Negative Paladin. Maintain present heading. Do not fire unless fired upon.”

Bill scowled. “Ok Devil, Set the table, we might have guests coming.” He ordered.

 

It was still as briefed. For once, it was Osea that was deciding when and where to engage these bastards. They would finally get some payback. Bill leaned forwards and switched his master arm switch to ARM. The HUD reflected the stores amount of his AIM-9 Sidewinders. Flipping his left MFD to the Stores page, he could see the status of the missiles on board, as well as the over four hundred rounds he had in reserve in the Hornet’s magazine for the cannon in the nose.

 

“Copy, ready to rock and roll when they arrive.” Devil replied. Bill could hear the excitement in the younger pilots voice.

 

“Wolfman, Paladin, Any more on that bogey?” Bill asked.

“Negative Paladin.”

 

Bill looked at the map, The Hornets were nearly in the middle of the sixteen hundred square mile airspace. At best speeds, any help would still be more than a minute away.

 

Bill monitored the sensors closely. Between the situational awareness display, the electronic warfare display, the radar and looking outside, he could feel it starting to get warm under his helmet.

 

At that closing speed, the bogey would be halfway there.

 

“Devil, you have anything?” Bill asked.

 

Nothing.

 

“Devil, do you read?” Bill interrogated again.

 

He was once again met with silence. Bill grinned. They had fallen into the trap.

One of the reasons Bill had been selected by Nonner and TK, seemed rather innocuous to the pilot, but now made perfect sense. At the Osean Naval Academy, as a Midshipmen, Bill had been one of the members of their amateur radio club. His Specialty being that of morse code operation. His skills in the convening years had atrophied, but he was still capable enough to use the heliograph aboard the ship, and especially the flashlight.

Two long flashes, a quick flash followed by a long flash. A quick flash, long flash and quick flash, and concluding with two long flashes.

QRM, the international code for interference.  

Bill looked out and waited for the reply.

Long flash, quick flash, two long flashes. Quick flash, three quick flashes. Y E S

 

Bill scanned outside the jet. He couldn’t trust anything but his eyes now.

A glint in his mirror caught his eye. Missile!

Bill rolled the jet over and pulled hard. The RWR had remained silent. Easing off the pull, he quickly leaned forward and cycled the power. It gave a familiar tone on startup but remained silent. Dick move.

 He pulled up and could see Devil had taken the hint and broke right. The contrail of a missile between the two Hornets.

Clock is running. Hopefully the immediate and seemingly erratic behavior of the jets, coupled with the loss of radio communication would be enough to send the cavalry. Bill hoped. Bill could see two black dots in the distance, closing on the flight.

Bingo.

Bill switched to his Sidewinders, instead of the familiar growl, he was met with the two-tone sound of a Master Caution. He glanced down to the Stores page open on his MFD.

 

FCS FAILURE.

 

The Fire Control computer onboard all Osean Jets controlled weapons employment and would help enable better missile tracking when used in conjunction with Electronic Warfare aircraft such as the Growlers. Now, it was the only thing standing between Bill and his remaining means of defense.

 

Bill growled as he pressed the button on the dashboard and reset the Master Arm Switch. He re-engaged his Sidewinders.

 

Two Tones.

 

“Fuck!” He yelled in frustration.

 

The enemy jets we’re seconds away.

 

He could see a plume of smoke jut out from the lead jet. Instinctively Bill and Devil went into a defensive split, Bill pulling right and Devil to the left. The Missile failed to track on either Hornet.

 

The SA screen was still blank. In his mirror Bill could see one of the bandits had turned to engage him while the second broke off to follow Devil. They we’re committed and falling further into the net that the Pilots had laid out for them. Bill used the high-alpha nature of the Hornet to his advantage pulling to all his might in a climbing turn. He strained against the G forces as the suit inflated and his own muscles struggled to keep the blood in his head. In his fading vision, he could see the smaller fighter keeping pace with him, but just out of any position to get a track on him. At 8 G’s Bill was positive not even the best missiles on the market could keep track.

 

It wasn’t briefed, But Bill was glad Devil was on the same page as he was. His wingman had pulled a similar stunt and now the four aircraft we’re careening for the same point.  Devil would get there first, Putting Bill in a perfect position for guns pass on the bandit. Bill kept jinking his fighter as he closed on Devil. With his thumb he selected the gun. The Onboard targeting computers were blind to the threat so he would have to eyeball it, but he still had the Maneuvering line.

 

Five Seconds.

 

Bill eased off on the back pressure and his eyesight returned. He could see Devil’s bright red tail and the bandit behind him. It was a smaller jet, By Bill’s guess, closer to the F-5 than anything.

 

Four

 

The Airspeed on Bill’s HUD read 650.

Maybe I will finally get a callsign for breaking the sound barrier? Bill thought to himself.

 

Three

 

The sun glinted off the windows of bandit in Bill’s mirror. He was lined up on the Hornet.

Try it asshole.

 

Two.

The bandits had eased off their approach. Something in the distance registered with Bill, but he couldn’t place what it was. Bill rested his finger on the trigger. Devil’s bandit was in a perfect position to be torn asunder by the twenty millimeter hate the M61 could provide.

 

One.

 

“Break right Now!” Shouted someone over the radio. It startled Bill hesitating only for a heartbeat, He complied, idling the throttle while jerking the stick hard over to the right and back to the stops. He grunted in pain as the G’s attempted to force the aging man through the seat. He caught a glimpse of something pass his canopy.

 

Four billowing contrails burst off from the south and bloomed in all directions. The bandits had screamed past both Bill and Devil and both Hornets we’re in the clear.

“Paladin, Wolfman, how copy?” The Airborne Early Warning aircraft shouted.

Devil was the first to reply, laughing. “Paladin copies all!”

Another voice chimed in. “Snake flight, break off and engage bandit one. Griffin has two.”

 

TK was heard on the radio next. “Bill, Devil, Reference one eight Zero and join up on us. Sorry for the close call there. Snake couldn’t keep the Phoenix’s under wraps.”

 

“Reference one eight Zero, Paladin 3-1” Bill replied.

High above Bill could make out the Tomcats of Snake squadron, their wings extended as they slowed down to engage Bill’s bandit. Bill turned his jet towards the south and kept his hand on the throttle.

 

“Bill I’m on your trail.” Devil informed.

Bill checked his weapons again; the page still showed the Fire Control System failure.

 

Four more Hornets passed above Bill and Devil.

“Griffin One, Fox Three!”

“Griffin Two, Fox Three.”

“Griffin Three, Fox Three.”

“Griffin Four, Fox Three!”

 

As the Pilots called out the attack, Bill watched as in succession, four missiles screamed from the wings of the Hornets. They reached out like fingers towards the bandit. Bill leaned over his chair to watch the small black fighter fly in a sloppy Jink. To his amazement however, The four AIM-120 AAMRAAM’s bloomed out and failed to track the haphazard jet.

 

“Attack failed, Enemy ECM Still active.” reported Griffin One.

“Keep Pressing the attack. If the theory is correct, a Saturation attack should overwhelm it.” Wolfman ordered.

 

A larger formation crossed the Horizon, at its heart, was two F/A-18G ‘Growlers’. Jets not dissimilar to Bill and Devil’s own but converted to fight with less conventional means then guns and Missiles. Flanking on each side was two regular F/A-18E Hornet’s from Paladin.

“Rook One, Music On.” The Lead Growler reported.

As Bill and Devil formed up on the rest of the Paladins, He watched the scene unfold.

 

The bandits were in disarray and flailing about the sky.

 

The first bandit he saw was the prey of the Tomcats of VF-14, the Snakes. Two of the Tomcats held above the sky and back, likely with any remaining AIM-54 Pheonix missiles ready for a chainsaw attack. Meanwhile two more Tomcats had gained up on the bandit and was actively toying with it. Any Movement the jet would make would be countered by a burst of cannon fire off its nose by the Tomcat. The enemy jet pilot was getting desperate, he nosed the jet over towards the canopy. Matching him move for move, the Tomcats pursued. No hard deck, designated by ROE or physics, would dissuade the Osean pilots on his tail.

 

This was a mission of vengeance for the pilots. They we’re tired of being left in the dark about the unknown enemy, and now they would get their pound of flesh.

 

“Snake three, Fox two!” Yelled one of the Tomcat pilots.

 

His sidewinder didn’t travel far before it detonated, the blast fragmenting steel rods within the missile in an expanding circle of death, shredding the fuselage of the bandit instantly, and igniting the stores and fuel onboard in an expanding cacophony of violence and death, disintegrating the aircraft as it plunged in a fireball, disappearing into the lush greenery below.

 

There was no ejection.

 

The Tomcats wings retracted as they picked up speed. Afterburner’s roared as they climbed to meet their brethren, adding another kill to the venerable name of the Tomcat.

 

 

The situation for the second Bandit had not faired any better.

The Griffins pursued their quarry in a less than direct manner. With the Electronic countermeasure advantage eliminated by the Growlers, the Bandit was running east. The Hornets followed but didn’t engage by design. Unlike the direct methods taken by the Snakes, Griffin’s Squadron commander, Commander ‘Tosa’ Zarzoza had his pilots guide the bandit to its death. The Bandit’s afterburner glowed as it tried to escape. The Hornets matched him. With one Hornet hanging back, the other three would run intercepts to goad the bandit into engaging. He was not taking the risks and maintained heading.

 

“Griffin one, Either Engage or let someone else take it.” Chastised Wolfman.

There was a long sigh on the radio. “Fine. Cupid, Slammer, disengage. Opie form up on me.” Ordered Tosa.

 

“Griffin Four, fox three.” Reported one of the Griffin pilots, Opie, unenthusiastically. In a rather unclimactic extent. The AIM-120 AAMRAAM pitbulled onto the target, the fragmentation caught a glancing blow on the rear of the bandit, sending it in a tailspin and spiraling into the jungle below, culminating in a final explosion as it impacted the ground.

 

There was a pause of radio traffic.

“All Aircraft. Scope is clear. Conduct battle-damage-assessments and report losses.” Ordered Wolfman.

 

Slowly, reports came in. “Sinker, 0 Kills, 0 Losses.” Reported the Tomcat Pilots of the Gunmen. They got long range seats to the fight, but their mission had been to babysit the fleet. Unglamorous but still important.

Next was the ‘Spear’ Flight, consisting of the four jets of Paladin, and two Growlers of VAQ-137, Rook.

“Spear, 0 Kills, 0 Losses. All Aircraft accounted for.” TK reported.

“Hook, Snake has taken 0 Losses, bagged one bandit!” Replied the Snakes squadron commander.

“Hook, Griffin has taken 0 losses, one enemy bandit neutralized.” Tosa reported.

 

Bill had looked over Devils jet and gave him a thumbs up. Devil had done the same for him.

Miraculously, despite being engaged first, neither jet had taken any damage from the enemy.

 

Bill keyed the radio. “Bait. 0 Kills, 0 losses, all aircraft present and accounted for.”

There was a cheer over the radio.

 

“All fights, take heading of one-eight-zero. Refuel with Arco and Shell and return to the boat.” Ordered Wolfman.

***
The Hangar deck was a flurry with crewmen. Pilots were congratulating each other on a mission well done, plane crews rushed around excitingly preparing the jets for their next sortie.

 

It had been a clear-cut victory, something sorely needed for the exhausted aircrews. The Pilots who had killed the enemy fighters had photos taken next to the freshly painted kill tallies on their jets. Intel was still not clear on who or what they had fought, but the Pilots of the Seventh Air Wing didn’t care. They had been the first to dictate the battle against them. That alone was a victory. Dominating the airspace was a cherry on the cake for them.

***

Bandogs eyes read the final lines of the report. He sighed and let out a thick cloud of smoke from his cigarette.

 

“When did Admiral Lovelady send this over?” Bandog asked David.

“Just got it on the data drop today. Its dated to yesterday.” David replied from the edge of the darkened room. Trying to avoid the secondhand smoke inhalation.

 “Ok, send him the funds agreed upon and see if he can’t get any of that SIGINT data from those RC-135’s they had snooping over the airspace. And if he claims otherwise remember whose sending his daughter to that pricey college upstate. Certainly, can’t afford that on his salary with that many ex-wives.” Bandog ordered. Lovelady, living true to his name, was one of the easiest Osean officers to squeeze intelligence from. Rarely did Bandog ever need internal Osean reports but having a Flag officer in his deck was not awful for business either.

David moved to exit the room, pausing at the door.

“Boss, if I may speak freely?” David asked.

“Go for it.”

“I thought you’d be happier reading about an Osean victory. Especially one against those jets all things considered.”

 

Bandog took a long drag off his cigarette and blew out the smoke.

 

“I’m not happy because this wasn’t a victory. Not by a long shot. Whatever these jets are, they still overwhelmed those jets fire controls, on top of regular ECM stuff we can only sometimes counter. The only reason any of those pilots made it out alive is because they outnumbered those jets eight to one. The Victories in the Erusea attack were still about six to one, Osean aircraft to those jets. It took most of a Carrier’s airwing to get them all back alive. That isn’t a victory, that’s just luck by numbers. Had those idiots they were fighting been more organized? We very well may have seen a blood bath.” Bandog explained.

 

“I see.” David replied slowly.

 

“I want any relevant SIGINT data those 135’s have. It might be the only chance we have to counter act what those jets put out.” Bandog reiterated.

“Should we pass any more upgrade requests along to Hughes?” David asked.

Bandog tapped his chin. “Not yet. I want to read those reports before we make any changes. Did Fick say when Trigger was going to be ready?”

 

“No updates yet sir. Last I heard he was still failing to figure out how to use a rifle properly.”

Bandog snorted. “Figures. God forbid those talents manifest in more than flying a jet and pissing people off. Tell Fick to get Sergeants Kyle and Morgan ready along with Trigger. I think its time for them all to go to school.”

 

“Understood sir.”  

Chapter 31

 

THIRTY-ONE

Trigger stood in the muddy pistol bay, just beyond the dirt runway that ran along the side of the Marines compound. Before him was a table, a M9 Handgun, and a plastic ammo box. Beyond that was three sets of steel plates and one paper target at varying distances beyond the table and into the bay. Trigger noted on the sides in large white stencils was markings for 7, 10, 15, 20, 25. 7 and 10 being closely spaced and then the consequent numbers being evenly spaced to the end of the bay, terminating in a large berm of dirt and beyond that the dense jungle of Chopinburg.

Zhao stood next to Trigger loading a magazine with cartridges. The small brass casings gleamed in the sunlight as they clicked into place.

“Ok Trigger. Do you understand the course of fire?” Zhao asked.

“Well yeah, that’s just a basic Pistol qual. I’ve already done mine though.” Trigger replied.

Zhao snorted. “Bullshit. We were able to see how badly you did and the report that came of it.” Zhao remarked.

Report? No one told me about a report. Trigger thought.

“Well report or not, I don’t see why I have to requalify to you guys.” Trigger griped.

Zhao stood unimpressed and continued to load magazines. “Quit your whining. Doc and Kyle both gave you the green light medically to get into the swing of things. You’re walking unaided and furthermore, all you have been doing these past three weeks aside from working out, is chores. If anything, I think this is a good break in monotony for you Trigger.” Zhao said, patting Trigger on the back, hard.

“Fine. I guess I’ll Requalify again… Just tell me one thing. What report?” Trigger asked.

 

Zhao Chuckled.

“Well, you are factually correct, you did do you basic Airman Pistol qualification before you deployed to Fort Grays after the F-16 indoc you did. The thing is, the Instructors at Arixo Air Base were not, convinced of the legitimacy of your target.”

“Whys that?” Trigger said defensively.

“Do you remember the minimum passing score needed?”

 

Trigger squinted and struggled to remember the safety briefing from over a year and a half prior, to a time before the war and back when he was still a Butter Bar.

 

“Thirty out of forty-five, right?” Trigger responded.

“Not even remotely close. Which coincidentally, was some of the rounds that got counted to give you exactly thirty-five rounds on target – the minimum score. Your Cadre was made aware of this while you we’re out processing but it was deemed that.” Zhao put down the magazine and produced a document from the range bag. He cleared his throat before reading “Due to the Lieutenants above average abilities in both Practical and classroom studies on the Fighting Falcon coursework. We will authorize his continued-out processing to Fort Grays Airbase. Furthermore, likelihood of combat in the region is low for the foreseen deployment, though we will pass on concerns to the 508^th.” Zhao put the document down.

“Well obviously only half of their assumptions were accurate from the sounds of it. So now since they failed to teach you. It falls upon me to get you there Trigger.” Zhao concluded.

 

“Joy. So not only am I a wanted terrorist… the Government knows I can’t shoot worth a damn.” Trigger grinned.

“Ah just shut up and make ready Trigger. Let’s start you on the paper target to see what I’m working with here.” Zhao instructed.

Trigger picked up and loaded the magazine into the gun and hit the slide release with his thumb. The battered handgun slid with a thud as the recoil spring threw the slide forward.

“Shooter Ready?” Zhao asked.

Trigger nodded. “Ready.”

“You may fire when ready.” Zhao instructed.

Trigger braced himself, placing one foot in front of the other and aimed the handgun at the target. He slowly rested his index finger on the trigger and let out a controlled breath.

 

Taking his time Trigger fired the fifteen shots the magazine held, on the fifteenth Bang the slide locked back.

“Unload and show clear Trigger.” Zhao ordered. Trigger pressed the magazine release with his thumb and stumbled trying to catch the empty mag as it fell from the handgun. After a juggling act that resulted in failure, Trigger resigned himself to fate setting the M9 onto the table and picked the magazine up out of the muck, wiping the filth onto the worn BDU pants he was given to wear.

 

Zhao closed the distance to the paper target and rested his hands on his hips. “Trigger do you mind coming here?” Zhao demanded.

Trigger jogged over to the older Marine.

“How many shots did you fire?” Zhao asked pointedly.

“Fifteen is all you gave me.”

“Interesting… Did you happen to have your eyes open while shooting?” Zhao asked rhetorically.

“Well yeah.”

“Ok. Did you just not aim at this target then?” Zhao interrogated.

Trigger chuckled uneasily. “What do you mean?”

Zhao shoved a finger into the paper target. “Count how many holes are in this target.”

Trigger paused and looked.

 

 

“Well, it appears there are three.” Trigger said bluntly.

“How observant. Mā ya, I’m glad the Lieutenant requisitioned a quarter million rounds for you.” Zhao said defeated.

***

Triggers hands ached. He reeked of unburnt powder and sweat, he was exhausted, hot, and annoyed.

The Pistol hung heavy in its kydex holster on his waist.  

“Do you understand the course of fire Major?” Zhao asked from behind Trigger.

 

Trigger paused and looked at the makeshift firearms course that he had been set up with on one of the rifles bays the Marines had erected. The first few shots would be from his current position at the entrance of the bay, to hit two targets in what was a ‘Failure to stop’ drill, two rounds to the steel targets ‘torso’, and one to its ‘head’. He would then have to run to a covered position, demonstrate a reload, and then conduct a ‘Triple threat’ drill from a kneeling position, with the weapon in a low-ready position. Set up twenty feet away from Triggers cover would be three paper targets, and his job would be to shoot each target in the chest three times, followed by a pelvis and then head shot.

One more reloads while moving from the second stage to the third ending with a longer-range target at nearly sixty feet away with the ammo from his first magazine.

it was to be his final test of that day. Zhao had let Trigger step through the course slowly twice before, but now he had a timer to contend with.

 

“I understand.” Trigger said.

“Shooter Ready.” Zhao Started, and lifted the timer.

“Standby” Zhao barked. With an electric beep of the Timer, Trigger was on the clock. He pulled the beaten Berretta from its holster and rested the sights on the first target’s torso. The first two shots were met with a metallic ping of the bullets hitting the steel plate. He raised the handgun slightly and fired another round. Trying to be as fluid as he could, he moved to engage the second target and was pleased to hear three pings in quick succession.

 

The first stage done, Trigger started his sprint to the second stage, outlined by a square behind a bright orange netting which acted as his ‘cover’.

 

Trigger kneeled pulling a fresh magazine from his waistband. He pressed the slide release and pulled the used magazine from the pistol, replacing it with the fresh magazine, in a concept Zhao had referred to as ‘Topping off’. Taking an extra moment to put the old magazine in his pocket, Trigger now had sixteen rounds to complete the second stage of the course. Raising the handgun, he moved to engage the three targets.

 

Like before, Trigger fired three shots into the middle paper targets mid-section, with one shot to the top and bottom circles on the target. Moving to the second target, the first three shots hit the center mass, but the third, which Trigger had wanted to go for the ‘pelvis’ of the target flew low and missed.

 

Trigger frowned for a second before taking another shot and re-engaging the target, readjusting his aim point. The round flew low again but Trigger moved on. One more ‘headshot’ and the second target was neutralized. He turned his attention to the third target. First shot hit the paper, the second shot fired, but with the pull of the trigger, instead of a bang, all Trigger could hear was the click. Trigger pulled the trigger again, leveraging the double-action nature of the M9. Click.

 

Malfunction. Of course.

 

Zhao had prepared Trigger for this eventuality. The handgun he was using had seen its fair share of abuse and had failed to feed more times than Trigger could count in the hours previous. He racked the slide and caught a glimpse of an empty casing fly out. Trigger fired the remaining shots and the slide locked back empty with the stage completed.

 

Trigger stood up and followed the arrows in the dirt, he dropped the depleted magazine and fished in his pocket for the final magazine. If his mental math was correct, he should have eight rounds left, and he would need to get at least four hits on the one foot by one foot target.

He hit the slide release as he arrived at the final square in the mud. The sweat that fell in his eyes burned, but he pushed through the pain. He squinted to see the target. A black dot that seemed an impossible distance away.

He let out another breath and fired.

Upon the eighth pull of the trigger, the slide had locked back on empty.

“Time!” Zhao shouted. “Unload and show clear” Zhao instructed. Trigger released the empty magazine and returned the handgun to its holster and pulled the foam earplugs from his head.

The two men walked to the final target.

 

Splattered across the black circle of the target was five tattered holes. Trigger grinned.

Zhao folded his arms “Well, you’re certainly not going to be representing Osea in the Olympics anytime soon with this, and personally, I’d recommend you stay away from any IPSC competitions to not embarrass yourself with that minute and a half time. But for our purposes Trigger, I’d say that’s good enough.”

 

“’Good Enough’? I mean I think for where I started. That’s pretty damn great!” Trigger said sardonically.

“Most of the men here can clear this course in around thirty seconds. Forty-five if they’re particularly slow.” Zhao replied.

“Well then mister shoot-it-all, what’s your time?” Trigger challenged.

“When I was younger? Averaged around twenty-eight. Now that I am old enough to be your father Trigger, I can get through it in about forty, and even without my glasses my grouping isn’t as shit as yours.”

“Well… Fine then.” Trigger replied, sensing he lost the argument before it began.  

Zhao shook his head “Major go police the brass and call it a day. I am surprised though; it only took ten thousand to get you straightened out. I was betting on closer to fifty.” Zhao taunted as he walked away.

 

Cluttered in the corner was ten empty ammo boxes, filled with brass Trigger had been collecting throughout the day. It was the least fun part of the range use but at least it gave him some quiet.

 

As he sifted through the mud, he thought back on the previous three days. Zhao had run Trigger through dozens of drills in a crash course on defensive pistol use. Stuff Trigger had only briefly touched on at Heirlark, SERE and in Officer Training School, but never expected to need in his career.

Unfortunately, Trigger knew his training with the Marines wasn’t half over. Zhao’s next training would be use of rifles incase the need arose for Trigger to use one. He remembered his fight in the hangar with Asher.

 

Farbanti had both felt like a lifetime ago, and still a fresh memory to Trigger. He tried to push the next thought out of his mind. He checked his watch. 1943. Months prior, Him and Cossette would be sitting on the couch, watching TV together, or potentially getting ready for another evening date. His mind wandered to what she was doing now, after the attack.

He wondered if she was looking for him, and if so, for how long?

Not being able to contact her was torture. Trigger pushed it out of his mind the best he could, but it stayed in the corners, like a ever present shadow looming over every brief respite he had of his daily life.

***

“So how was your final test?” Sergeant Kyle asked.

Trigger slumped forward on the kitchens countertop and shoveled the food into his mouth. He paused and wiped his face with a napkin before he replied.  “I think he likes bossing an officer around a bit much.” Trigger replied, swallowing down the food.

Kyle laughed. “Yeah, but its either him or Morgan, and Zhao is the ‘people person’ of the two.” He said, adding air quotes for emphasis.

“Really? That guy is a dick though!”

Kyle shrugged. “Well, he is generally the best at blending in and he can turn that charisma on like that.” He snapped his finger “and he’s easily one of the best shots the team has here. Even has taught a few classes at the Gunsight Academy. Morgan on the other hand has been dodging a forced recruitment to the Marine’s Shooting team for his abilities on the M-21. But if you think Zhao’s bad, Morgans just a black hole of personality.”

Trigger thought back to the night before his ‘escape’. Morgan pointing a gun at his head.

“Charming. So where do you fall into all of this?” Trigger asked.

“Me? Well, most of us are just better than average. Hell, I could probably outshoot most civilians in those run-and-gun competitions if I wanted to but compared to those two, or other guys in Saber and Berserker? Most of us Basilisk guys don’t hold a candle in comparison.” Kyle replied meekly.

“I see.” Trigger said returning to his plate of food.

***

Trigger stared at the document before him with what ranged between shock and disgust.

“Hans Helmutkraft? What the fuck is this?” He asked pointedly.

“Well, Hans, that’s your new Identity if you’re outside the wire here. Evidently, we can’t keep your regular name since your wanted and all that jazz. So, we have a new identity based on your given life experience.” Fick explained.

“And that is?”

“Well your personnel file indicated that not only can you speak Belkan fluently, is that correct?” Fick asked.

“Ja, but I’m not seeing why I need such a comical name.” Trigger complained.

“Well given that you can speak the language, the Broker decided it best to make you a ex member of the Belkan Air Force. It would be adequate for most inspectors that you’d be able to speak Belkan and fly a Combat jet, and they probably won’t dig any further than that.”

The Broker means Bandog. What a dick. Trigger thought

“Yeah but… Hans Helmutkraft? Why not Solare Ostberg if we’re going for Belkan names. Hell, Why not Klaus Von Hertz or Ludwig Haber?” Trigger asked.

Fick shrugged.  “Look, I don’t make the identities, I just pass them along and make sure you have the litter that matches. So, it will be so much easier if you just let me do my job so you can get closer to doing your job. Ok?”

 

Pocket litter was something Trigger had only a minor bit of experience in. the SERE instructors had harped against having anything on you that could identify you if you needed to escape enemy custody, but now he had to develop the right amount of trash that if needed, could support his alias of a Belkan veteran.  

He was handed a wallet, inside was an expired military Identification card, a drivers license, Receipts from a duty-free shop in Dinsmark, various ticket stubs and a worn picture of an F-16 in Belkan Markings.

Trigger grinned as he ran his finger over the faded paper of the picture.

 

“Well, If I have to use this, can I at least keep the callsign?” Trigger asked.

Fick shrugged and leaned back on the counter behind him. “I’d advise against it, but you’re going to do what you’re going to do.”

“Cool.”  

 

After half an hour of constructing the alias, Trigger was thrown a dufflebag. Inside was brand new sets of shirts and pants. He sifted through the clothing and found denim jeans, tactical pants, Flannels, dress shirts, slacks, and even T-shirts.

“So you went shopping on my behalf?” Trigger asked.

“Yeah, we couldn’t have you walking around in old BDU’s, and none of us had any Flektarn, and none of Lauren’s crew would fit you so, we had to make do.”

“Is there anything here not from the 5.11 catalog?” Trigger asked.

“Probably. We wanted to give you enough options to get your own style. Given your military background for the alias we figured it was forgivable if you wanted to dress like that.”

“wouldn’t that kinda defeat the purpose of that ‘Grey man’ concept Dennings was talking about though?”

Fick chuckled at the question “Well, in normal society, yes. But Chopinburg is filled with so many mercs and criminals it doesn’t really matter. And besides, you’re not going to be the one in the firefight if it brakes out.”

“Then why did I have to go through all that suffering with the pistol then?”

“Because you sucked at shooting, and I didn’t want to risk you accidentally shooting one of us. From the sounds of it though, starting out the safest area might have been in front of your gun.”

“Wow, not even going to try to be gentle ripping the band aid off. Nice.” Trigger replied to the jab.

“Well, that’s why Zhao is the professional liar and I’m just the one who manages them all.” Fick replied.