After finishing the afternoon's debriefing, Kei could finally retire to one of the few rooms that hadn't become a billet and relax for the evening. She knew her first combat-mission would be coming soon. In any case she was already rain-soaked, may as well dry-off in one of those 'saunas' she kept hearing about...

---

The next morning briefing brought recent events to light. Such as Kat falling ill, likely to do with being over-stressed and constantly-wet... Kei could've sworn she'd remembered Kat was still furiously trying to towel-off even before departing on their six hour flight. That made undoubtedly for a bad combination... so now her point-interceptor was now pulling ground-pounding duties.

With only two tons and five hardpoints to play with, Kei was already mentally running every combination of ordnance she could think of though her head... not just what she could carry, but also what was available and most suitable for dealing with an infantry-centric enemy.

Her load of SNEB flechettes on the Matra-155 pods would work well against exposed infantry trying to hide in the treelines; some firebombs would work well against anything dug-in -no matter how well they'd try- while a half-ton parcel of sub-munitions could provide area-denial and anti-material capabilities along roads and airstrips. While she hoped her cannons with only 120 rounds would be more than sufficient to put-down any floating sampans.

Before long, her heavily-laden plane was plodding down the taxiway and thundering down the strip. Unlike the earlier flight, this one was quick and to the point when 'Heartbreak' spotted a convoy of gun-trucks and infantry heading towards friendlies indicated by green smoke. Short-Round peeled-off first, firing three pairs of flechettes from nearly two klicks out... the hail of steel had cut a swath into the trees and whoever was unlucky enough to try hiding within it as the ground was showered not only in the steel hypervelocity dart, but also shrapnel and falling branches from the trees.

Traveling at nearly 300 meters per second upon her target, 'Shorty' barely given them a chance to realize they've come under attack before she began dropping submunitions from the belly of her TL-500 munitions-container, showering the road in over two hundred and sixty PTAB anti-tank/personnel submunitions as her plane zoomed away to pull into a steep 70-degree unrestricted climb, giving Kei time to roll her plane over and look for any artillery-flashes from twelve angels up --less than 15 seconds after starting her attack-run.

Austin let out a soft yawn as he listened to Scott give out mission details, his hands attempting to work quietly as he ate at the plate he had-like back on the Stormcloud- covered it until he could hold no more, his throat producing a soft content hum as he chewed his Omelet. The night had been rather average, it got really hard to get to sleep when he didn't know that his girls were safe. I miss the patrols already He thought to himself, setting his plate to the side as he finished it, Taking a sip of his scorching hot coffee Even if they were boring, I was at least able to be home in time to make a meal!. The pilot dismissed the thought, keeping his mind focused on the task at hand-or trying to.

"This should be interesting!" The man stood up as the briefing finished, stretching himself away as he started to clean up, putting his cup and other utensils into a pile as he looked at his squadron. His eyes fell upon Rodriguez, the other pilot whom flew the Viper. He was interesting, to say the least, but he didn't know why. Maybe it was because he was friendly, or Social....or maybe it was his beard? It could be both,but the viking-loving pilot didn't have time to think of weird stuff like that. Austin gave a nod to him and said a friendly word or two before heading towards his beloved Eagle, wanting to go and do some checks on his aircraft seeing as he had forgotten to order his paint and models.

Viking let out a sigh of relief as he started to see the jets taxi out onto the runway, his canopy already closed as he stared out at the world. Just to humor himself, and possibly his squadmates,The pilot started to sing A fitting song, only to stop as Scott spoke. "Beer? Why beer?" He asked, strapping on his oxygen mask and bringing his visor down as he started to take off "Beer doesn't agree with me....". The eagle slotted nicely into formation, it's paint job bright and disorientating in the sun, luckily he was in the back. The pilot started to sing again as they passed the capital, his eyes searching his radar and the horizon for any specks of dust he could make out- he hoped not, he didn't really ever get to crack jokes in the Eagle and he wouldn't risk doing that while in the middle of a Furball.

"All right, folks," Scott said, coming back on the air and cutting through the peaceful flight. "Split up, and let's get busy. Charnel, Viking, Stalin: goood hunting, and keep our asses covered. The rest of you, follow me in. We'll take it in three waves."
St. Helen scanned frequencies from her back-seat position, and spoke up as the Major from the previous evening came on the comm-channel.
"Attention, Black Knights, this is Major Constantine. We are marking out positions with green smoke. Repeat, our positions are marked with green smoke, and our forces have pulled back to within the city limits. Anything on the roads outside of Sinnamary can be considered hostile forces, over!"
"Copy that," said St. Helen, relaying the information to the rest of the flight. "All targets with green smoke are friendlies, anything outside the city to the North-west is a hostile and we can engage at will!".

Austin started to pull off from the formation, joining up with his Flight on the right hand side of the Su-35, looking back at the other three as he leveled his plane. "Wilco....Hey, whoever gets first kill gets a shot on me!" He smiled behind his mask, taking a deep breath as he kept up with the Russian plane as best as he could "Well, you know, unless it's me!". After a few minutes Stalin spoke up, making him nearly jump out of his harness as he was focused on Hawk flight.

"Squad Stalin here, be advised: I've four bogeys heading inland at grid 552091, bearing 087, flying at low altitude. Break. Viking, Charnel, they look like air-to-ground from here and I don't think they want to drop good presents for our guys... it would be embarrassing if any of you get hit by those slugs, so be good and fuck them up, da? Break. Hawk flight, watch your 2 in case those kretyny target you guys instead."

"Copy, seems we will have something to shoot AFTER all!" Viking said bluntly, his eyes peering down to look at his Radar, adjusting until he could see the Bogey's. They looked awefully small for fighters, and the Straight wings made him cock his head "Are those midget A-10's?" He asked aloud, adjusting his seating to get the best look "Definitely armed...they're not near Green smoke...". Austin leveled his plane, his thumb hovering over what he loved to call the 'Death Button', checking to see if the 'safety' was off before launching his AMRAAM and calling "Fox Three!". This was going to be a fun day....

The morning developed rather nicely for a change as the storm that hit the region last night at since come and gone leaving the skies very much clear; a opportunity that had everyone up an ready for the eventual briefing. Due to the early morning patrol schedules he participated in back on Thunder Island as Warrior Three, Rodriguez was naturally up first and occasionally found with a newspaper in hand and a supplement of caffeine enriched coffee and a few biscuits on the side. As he read through the columns, he greeted each member of his squad that came in the briefing room until Heartbreak finally made his appearance which came as notion for Spirit to stash the articles.

The briefing opened up with a clear green light that an operation was underway but also came with the disappointing news that Kat wouldn't be attending. Sad too since he was hoping to ask about the ears openly. Alas the moment was not to be for the time being. As the briefing continued, it was apparent that the enemy was not wasting any time with the improved weather conditions either and a offensive strategy was already underway. Rodriguez's CO pointed out their mission objectives and intriguingly laid out the designs for two flights for the mission; Eagle flight being comprised of Stalin, Charnel and Viking for air engagement duties and Hawk flight which he, Short Round, and Heartbreak would be apart of as a coordinated ground strike force.

The plan was solid and allowed the Black Knights to deal with any threats effectively within the designated AO in Sinnamary. An eager filled grin formed across Rodriguez's face as he felt the need to spread his wings in the coming operation, especially the need for a little pay back too. He knew that today was going to be busy but this time it was going to go his way.

After some time of physical preparations and later taking off in formation towards Sinnamary, Heartbreak had ordered the squadron to split into their respective flights before sighting several targets up north; unfortunately for them as they were totally out of the safeguarding radius of the green smoked marked by the squadron's allies. The insurgents on the ground were now considered fair game. "All right, let's start making money. Break up and choose targets. I'm going to hit those convoys before they reach the town and the major. The rest of you, get busy!"

"Spirit, wilco. Breaking off and engaging enemy ground positions." radioed Rodriguez as he peeled off from Heartbreak's three o' clock and into a invigorating earthbound dive.

The F-16 spiraled out of the loose formation with four fully armed rocket pods bearing down on the emplaced enemy line fortified with entrenched infantry and light vehicles, actively selecting targets to erase. As Spirit closed in on his attack run, he witnessed Short Round's screaming flyby over the unsuspecting hostiles as she deployed a small number of ordnance and sub-munitions right on top of them. In an instant the vehicles and personnel unlucky enough to be caught in her sights vanished into a shredding brilliance of fire and sparks. And just like that, the insurgent's line was devastated leaving the surviving forces in disarray with guns discharging frantically in the air as a means of defense; pathetic as it was.

Utilizing the specialized APKWS mounted onto his Hydra 70 rockets, Rodriguez aimed his fighter's nose directly towards a set of targets outside of the green smoke comprising a number of panicked gun trucks and MG nests now painted by the F-16V's advanced laser sensors. With good pings coming from the lasers, Spirit pressed down on the weapon release. "Knight Five, Fox One! Fox One!"

With exhaust spewing out the back of four LAU-68 launchers, several Hydra 70 rockets shrieked forth from their individual tubes and made a mad beeline to their designated prey. Within seconds, the rockets connected and detonated, obliterating the crude trucks and the emplacements apart with artificial and natural debris shooting into the air as a result. Though the rockets themselves did not yield a comparably large explosion such as the earlier ordinance, the destructive velocity and power of the Hydra 70s were enough to pulverize the hardly armored trucks and positions with ease.

With the F-16 coming close to ground level, Rodriguez called out another volley of rocket fire onto another set of targets along side the road quickly neutralizing them in a series of isolated explosive bangs before finally increasing thrust and pulling out of the attack run, gaining much needed altitude as he banked the fighter into a forty-five degree turn out of the area so he could position himself for another run.

As always waking up was a slow process for Marciano.

It began with the sun finding the perfect gap in the curtains with which to hit the pilot dead in the eyes, causing him to partially wake and slightly turn before trying to get comfortable. He was close to achieving this when the ear splitting beeping of the old digital clock that was stationed on his night stand, completing the one two punch and shattering any hopes of getting back to the bliss that was voluntary unconsciousness. Groaning he resisted the urge to throw the thing across the room and instead slammed his hand down on the large snooze button, after a couple attempts that is. Lying there for a few seconds Marciano gathered the will power to get himself up, grunting slightly he pushed himself up in what would look like a half assed push up before rolling slightly to get his legs off of the bed. Blinking groggily he stood up and went about the morning ritual of a shower, getting dressed, and immediately finding the nearest cup of coffee. All this was done in silence, until he had taken a few gulps of the coffee, after which Marciano noticeably began to perk up.

Making his way to the briefing, Marciano was barely able to slip in before the CO's had rounded the corner. Hustling to his seat, a death grip on the ceramic mug, he took it quietly and slowly sipped from the hot drink in his hands as the briefing got started.

"The squadron will be split into two flights. Charnel, Stalin and Viking, you'll be Eagle Flight. You're going hunting for the enemy aircraft; since your planes are both primarily air-to-air fighters your job will be to pounce on any hostile bogeys that crop up during the ground attack by the other flight, and to intercept and identify any non-registered flights. If possible, track them back to their point of origin. Stalin - I want your Su-35 loaded with some air-to-ground ordnance, so you can attack if you have a target of opportunity. Otherwise, mark the location for follow-on attacks. You'll be watching the rest of our backs during the operation, and keeping us safe...

Marciano grinned and nodded, he didnt expect much else but still it would be a lie if it was said he didn't like his job.

At the end of it all he was prepping to go when he heard a loud whistle come from Stalin

"Charnel, Viking. You heard d'boss, we're flyswatters today. I'll hang back on this mission t'be ready t'bomb shitheads and help you guys out with any tails that you can't shake off, oke? You need help, call me and I'll chase the motherfuckers back home. Catch you on the flip side."

This caused Marciano to chuckle slightly at the fly-swatter comment, because at the root of it that is what they were. Going in to mop up a few buzzers. But it was nice to know that Stalin would be watching his back up there, judging from previous experience that is. Downing the last of his coffee Marciano set about getting more and to begin to set out, whistling a slightly random tune as he did so.

As the allotted time ran down Marciano made his way to the Hound and climbed inside, from what he had seen, what the techs had told him and what was being displayed as he turned everything on it looked like he was running a full load of 4 ASRAAM's and 4 AMRAAM's, as well as a fully loaded 1× 27 mm revolver cannon. "Whelp, time to do a bit of hunting." He thought to himself as he secured his mask and began taxing out to take his place in line to take off, quickly taking the first opportunity and getting into the sky alongside the others.

It had been a short flight, and the squads had barely separated, when his comms crackled to life

"Squad Stalin here, be advised: I've four bogeys heading inland at grid 552091, bearing 087, flying at low altitude. Break. Viking, Charnel, they look like air-to-ground from here and I don't think they want to drop good presents for our guys... it would be embarrassing if any of you get hit by those slugs, so be good and fuck them up, da? Break. Hawk flight, watch your 2 in case those kretyny target you guys instead."

Grinning he responded "Copy that Stalin. Hey Viking, remember that bet you made a little bit ago, well your on." Rolling slightly Charnel brought his targeting ridicule over one of the small fighters. As it locked he had to feel a bit sorry for the pilots of those planes, they were about to have a bad day.

Fox Three!

Viking came over the air just as Marciano's own tone sounded "Fox Three, Fox Three." The dull thud sounding as the AMRAAM detached streaking towards it's target, its path carrying it towards a different plane but near to its sibling that had been launched by Viking.

They were going to have a very, very bad day.

"Alright this is Charnel I'm rolling in." With that he eased the speed forward and pulled his wings back, gaining speed as he streaked towards the remaining Dragonflys.

Scott and St. Helen watched with keen eyes as Kei and Rodrieguez worked over the enemies' positions. The volleys of rockets from them both tore up the verdant tropical landscape, scattering smoke and debris wide and afar. The entrenched troops and their vehicles were torn apart by the high explosive fury of both pilots' attacks, leaving a shattered mass of wreckage, debris and destruction in their wake. Greasy thick black palls of smoke climbed and twisted into the air from the enemies' former positions, their line in disarray from the momentous air-strike. The chaos was only intensified as Kei's aircraft rolled back in, and scattered submunitions all along the roadway and secondary positions to the north of the town. Trucks and troops in motion set off the bomblets with dazzling explosions, and everything else came to a halt or wildly tried to avoid the pattern of laid-down explosives, with little success.
"Great work," St. Helen sounded from her position as she panned the ASF-14's targeting cameras and systems across the area. "I see a lot of good secondaries from the rocket attacks too. Bomblets have closed the road off as well. Heartbreak; we're in hot for our run on the arty"
"Rog," he confirmed in a firm, short word. The big, swing-winged fighter zig-zagged down from altitude, banking and yawing as it sawed across the rooftops, Scott popping a pair of flares for good measure as he lined up on the road. From the rear cockpit, St. Helen used the LANTIRN on the bottom of the fuselage to laser-designate the artillery pieces as the jet levelled off under Scott's hand. He mashed the weapon release with each lock-on, sending a laser-guided 1000,lb paveway to each position. The bombs righted themselves and twisted their fins as they sailed in, following the reflected laser beam with unerring precision in each case, their tiny robotic minds fixated on the spot, before they hit home with tremendous blasts, leaving twisted wreckage in their wake. A single truck on the road also received a burring burst of fire from the Tomcats' vulcan cannon as Scott saw a target of opportunity, before climbing out of the run, rolling half inverted and breaking hard in the climb to dissuade any shooters.
"Targets hit and burning!" he called over the radio. "Move on to our next group; anything in the river we send to the bottom, over".

***
With hostile fighters in the air and bound in on them, the Dragonflies didn't sit around. Weaving and evading for all they were worth, the little attack planes firewalled their throttles as they tried to shake off the inbound missiles. With wings fully loaded and with little power - comparatively, to the bigger jets against them - they didn't have much hope. Of the pair attacked, the first was hit belly-on by the AIM-120 as the Dragonfly pulled into a desperate turn toward the missile in an attempt to turn inside its' circle. The AMRAAM exploded directly beneath the crew compartmet, shredding both crewmen virtually instantly. The second A-37 turned nose on and dived, trying to present the narrowest profile to the inbound projectile. Nonetheless, the AIM-120's seeker and the guidance from the Tornado ADV's radar was too good; the missile impacted at mid-wing on the Dragonfly, slewing it into a flat turn. Shrapnel slaughtered the right-side crewman, but his body shielded his colleague, who managed to pull his handle and eject, his parachute barely opening before he disappeared into the canopy of trees, the cessna spinning wildly into the rainforest and expanding into a cloud of flame and debris.
The third of the little planes turned back; the loss of its' fellows was no little thing, and the little ground attacker was no match for three much higher-spec aircraft. Going as low as its' brave pilot dared, the plane zipped over the treetrops, moments later dropping its' gear as it circled a gap in the trees; a roughly hacked-out airstrip in the boundaries of a clearing. Sheds and portable container-type buildings marked it as some kind of logging or industrial site, pressed into the task. People ran back and forth in the clearing, readying for the little planes return as it dropped lower.

From the north east, a quartet of radar returns briefly flashed on screen, almost ghosting, before dropping off again. Moments later, lock-on warnings sounded on the three aircraft of the air-to-air elment, and missiles flashed toward them. In the clear skies of the morning sun, a distant gleam and glimmer could be seen of a canopy in the sunlight.

***

Scott rolled the Super Tomcat out level, following the course of the river further inland from overhead. The Major had informed them he was pressing on with the attack, and small explosions and movement on the ground could be seen as the Gendarmes and militia pressed their attack, pushing back the rebellious invaders, now stripped of their artillery, air support, and reinforcements. However, unless the Black Knights could hinder the advance up the river, the defenders risked being caught in a pincer from behind; the launch site also risked being overrun from the north to boot.
"Ahead, got contacts on the river. See 'em?" Scott banked the jet slightly for a better view of the ground. Indeed, on the river, were several wakes moving abreast. They looked like a variety of small boats, moving in a group. Tracers arced up toward the flight of aircraft: small arms fire, and a few mounted light and medium machine-guns, by the look of things.
"Targets on the river," he called out to the others. "Three groups of four, moving at slow speed. Got small arms comin' off of em, looks like the reinforcements. I'm rollin' in hot, over!"
Circling the ASF-14 around the group of boats, he aimed to hit the rearmost trio. The paveways that had been mounted under the tomcats' body had all gone to the artillery positions, but for the flotilla, the Super Tomcat had been loaded up with Mavericks. Once again, St. Helen drove the crosshairs onto the targets, and Scott ripple-fired the AGM-65's. The stubby-looking air-to-ground missiles tore through the air on white trails, blasting apart the helpless boats in plumes of dirty water, smoke and flame. Circling overhead, Scott kept watch as he waited for the others to make their attacks.

The ground strikes were majorly successful as the rebel's northern front of Sinnamary collapsed with a gaping hole in their lines, leaving Knight One's Tomcat virtually unopposed from any kind of ground fire as he made his own attack run with the artillery pieces in sight. After making a clean run on the big guns, Heartbreak's laser guided Paveways made quick work out of the artillery, engulfing the cannons into a surging inferno of fire and twisted metal. All that really remained were a large smoldering craters from the blasts with red hot husks of the former batteries.

Else where, Rodriguez noticed two airborne explosions from the West as the rebel attacker craft were hit by Eagle flight's interception. It was hardly considered an a fair fight; the A-37 Dragonflies were simply ill equip nor were aerodynamically capable of performance against the more air dominant craft of Eagle flight. Already seconds into the engagement the rest of the rebel aircraft bugged out, obviously wanting no part with the fates of their wingmen and reversed course back to which they came. However it appeared that the air confrontation was over, Spirit felt that the engagement was too easy; too easy in a different sense that just one squad of A-37 were all that the rebel could throw air-power wise.

For the briefest of moments, Rodriguez swore that he saw something shimmering in that sky that almost appeared to be- "Targets on the river...Three groups of four, moving at slow speed. Got small arms comin' off of em, looks like the reinforcements. I'm rollin' in hot, over!"

Spirit snapped back to the situation in hand as Heartbreak called up a tally on incoming gun boats up the river, poised for an flanking attack on the town defenders.

"Knight Five, roger that. Vectoring in on hostile craft." radioed Rodriguez as he banked his F-16 up towards the river and gaining altitude as he planned his his next attack run. Knight One's report rang true as three groups of attack boats came down the river throwing tracer fire into the air in a desperate attempt to keep the aircraft away seeing as though all their support that would have covered them literally went up in smoke. Rodriguez came in with a very loose formation with Hearbreak and Short round before they peeled off into their own attack vectors.

After circling around the small fleet, Spirit had then designated his targets for death as he made a dive towards the lead unit. Small arms fire opened up as he came into his approach, additional tracer leaping specifically for his craft while he painted the boats for the the Hydra 70s to scream against. Once the ping was perfect he called out Fox 1 and pressed on the weapon release, rockets spewed from their respective launchers and made contact with the riverborne craft. Personnel and armaments flew out of the boats as each rocket split them in two from not only the initial impact but the blast as well. Because of the tree line surrounding each side of the river, Rodriguez pulled up almost immediately, branches and foliage were sent in wind created by the F-16 directed thrust.

Once he had enough altitude, Spirit surveyed the results of his attack and confirmed the destruction of the front group. Seconds later, Hearbreak's run had dispatched the rear craft with ease, leaving only the center unit alone and completely at the mercy to Short Round's and her incoming attack. The painted scene was grisly perhaps in the perspective of the last surviving team of boats as they were surrounded by the sinking smolders of their comrades river craft. In a poetic sense, Hawk flight could be depicted as a pack of circling sharks, waiting for an opportunity to strike the hapless sailors locked to the lifeboats from a sunken seaworthy vessel without any real support or safeguard to rely on. The thought was not relishing in the slightest but these rebels posed a sure enough threat that needed to be eliminated.

From the north east, a quartet of radar returns briefly flashed on screen, almost ghosting, before dropping off again. Moments later, lock-on warnings sounded on the three aircraft of the air-to-air elment, and missiles flashed toward them. In the clear skies of the morning sun, a distant gleam and glimmer could be seen of a canopy in the sunlight.

"You have to fucking kidding me." Was all Marciano said as the tone that warned of an incoming missile lock filled his cabin and ears. He pushed his throttle once more to the near edges of casing and threw his jet into a hard right bank. He gritted his teeth as the dull thumps of the countermeasure flares launching reverberated in the hull. Pulling to the left, Marciano turned the Tornado out of the right bank and into a hard left bank, the missile closing closer. Mumbling something under his breath that sounded vaguely prayer like, Marciano launched more flares, his eyes fixed on his review mirror and on the contrail that was creeping closer and closer to his hull. As the bright stars shot out from the planes underside, he held his breath, the missile wavered and finally took the bait, veering off after a flare, a fireball errupting from the jungle where it went down. Bringing the hound into a level position, and slowing the jet away from the sound barrier, Marciano scanned the sky for any sign of who shot at him "Stalin, Viking, this is Charnel. you guys good? Also, who the hell was that!?" looking around the European pilot thought he saw a glimmer in the distance, but couldn't be too sure until the others checked in, he didn't want to go chasing phantoms alone.

As soon as the cockpit was filled with alerts and eerily calm, robotic voices uttering words of warning in Russian, Dmitry spat out the worst curses his brain could muster under the stress and mild panic that hit him in a matter of seconds after he enjoyed the spectacular display two thirds of Eagle Flight put out. Pulling and pushing every control surface in all possible directions, the pilot grunted and hiccuped as he felt his body pulled about by invisible forces that had grown dangerously familiar to him as he tried to shake off all lock-ons. He kept trying to look over his shoulder when he had the time, but, he would get a face full of chair instead of a visual on any ground-to-air or air-to-air missiles trailing him; he thought he saw smoke trails littering the air like a paper string, but the alerts just wouldn't cease no matter how hard he tried to shake the foxes off. Multiple pairs of flares dropped from the jet's frame as Dmitry pulled up and, thankfully, at least two alarms stopped assaulting his ears; now, he could understand the jet announcing him about the low altitude and low speed, so, he pushed the thrust forward, resulting in an immediate force pushing the pilot back in his seat as the Su-35 ascended from a dangerous altitude, engines screaming as they pushed the weight of the fighter upwards. The pilot gritted his teeth and squeezed his muscles tight as he could physically feel the heavy mass of his jet as it climbed back to relative safety and by the time he finally recovered, he managed to catch an uncertain glimpse at the radar spotting more bogeys. This was a definite message that he had to become active in the engagement.

Once he finally recovered from the near crash, Dmitry forced the grim thought of death out of the cockpit and launched his Su-35 forwards, determined to kick ass and take names for nearly ruining his very expensive piece of military engineering. As his fighter ripped through the sky, he caught a glimpse of the canopy reflecting the sunlight, offering him a general direction of possible enemies. He then heard Charnel speak through the comms, just as panicked and angry as he was, to which the Ukrainian replied:

"Charnel, Stalin, I didn't die yet. I'm going to kill the koorva before she does smart things again. I can't get a lock-on, though, that is really not good."

He was prepared to dodge any remaining AA ordnance launched from below and retaliate with his own set of AGMs, but his main focus was to survive and rip the aggressors to pieces. It suddenly became a personal issue for the pilot, fact that gave him drive to commit to the support effort of the ground team.

The small flotilla of riverine craft were a mess after the round of attacks by the Black Knights flight dedicated to ground-attacks. With Kei's assault rounding off the run on the small force of repurposed civilian boats, the reinforcements were left treading water, floundering or drowning - or floating in charred, dead lumps with the flow towards the ocean. The attack on the ground had, for the moment, been broken. A breathless message from Major Constantine confirmed as much; the Gendarmerie and Militia forces had been able to take back positions to the edge of town, forcing the surviving rebels to fall back to earlier positions, and giving the defenders a line to hold, until the Thunderbolt Black ground reinforcements arrived with armour and heavy weapons.
The majority of his ordnance expended, Scott turned his attention back to the skies, bringing his flight back into formation - and was immediately alerted by St Helen to the ongoing duel between the air-to-air flight, and their newly arrived opponents.

***

The quick reactions of Marciano and Dmitry kept them alive and unhurt. The inbound AAM's were fired from long-range, and with a poor initial lock from the front angle. As the ADV and the SU-35 broke sharply and blasted out countermeasures, the brightly burning flares were enough to distract the inbound missiles - or at least, for long enough that they had trouble re-acquiring their targets, and self-destructed instead.
From the direction of the missiles, a pair of aircraft blasted past, performing their own superbly executed break, splitting wide and curving in the morning skies, faint trails of vapour gleaming from their wingtips as the two sleek, angular tactical aircraft turned to engage.
The pair were a mis-matched duo; an SU-37 Terminator and a Dassault Rafale. Both were coal-black, with the Rafale having electric blue accents on the wingtips, canards and rudder, and the Terminator having deep orange in the same places. Both also sported a horned skull insignia in various places, and the numbers '2' and '5' in gothic script. Each were laden down with ordnance, both aerial and ground-attack, and at the sight of the Black Knights, turned to engage their aircraft. The Rafale began to pursue the Tornado, positioning itself between Marciano and Stalin, while the Terminator harassed its' sukhoi stablemate, driving hard towards Charnel with the powerful radar in the SU-37's large nose hunting down the Ukranians' aircraft as it banked to 270 degrees at the apex of its' climb, hammering down hard toward his plane.

Scott observed the situation from his position. St. Helen had fed the image from the powerful and huge AESA radar in the ASF-14's nose to his console and he quickly assesed the situation. His ordnance for ground attack was virtually depleted. Both Kei and Rodrieguez had more rounds to expend, however, and the airstrip was visible. The pair of bandits hadn't dallied with the ground-attack flight as of yet, and Austin looked to be in the clear too: perfect opportunity for a two-on-two.
"Short Round, Spirit. Go turn that Airstrip back into a jungle clearing. Break. Viking, this is Heartbreak; go give Charnel a hand with his new fan, I've got Stalin's tail, over"
He pushed more power into the ASF-14's engines, the wings sweeping back that little more as he climbed and banked, angling to slot in on the SU-37's tail as it dove for Stalins' jet. "Razorblade, lock that fucker up for me!" he grunted over the intercom, keeping his eyes fixed on the gleaming shimmer of the Terminator, a good half-mile distant above the sea of green below.

The skies over the airstrip were clear; the airstrip itself was nothing more than a logging camp roughly repurposed into a temporary strip. Sheds for construction equipment, now left out in the open, shielded the few light aircraft and helicopters in position, and sandbagged heavy machine-guns or truck-bed mounted guns were the only air defences along with handfuls of shoulder-fired SAMs dotted here and there.
Traces, aimed manually and fired too early or on reflex, curved wildly up into the skies along with small-arms fire, and it was easy to see people running in terror as the sounds of the oncoming jets was heard. The last Dragonfly from the earlier attack was still at the end of the runway, waiting for whatever the rebels had planned for it.

The small flotilla of riverine craft were a mess after the round of attacks by the Black Knights flight dedicated to ground-attacks. With Kei's assault rounding off the run on the small force of repurposed civilian boats, the reinforcements were left treading water, floundering or drowning - or floating in charred, dead lumps with the flow towards the ocean.

The attack on the ground had, for the moment, been broken. A breathless message from Major Constantine confirmed as much; the Gendarmerie and Militia forces had been able to take back positions to the edge of town, forcing the surviving rebels to fall back to earlier positions, and giving the defenders a line to hold, until the Thunderbolt Black ground reinforcements arrived with armour and heavy weapons.

***

From the direction of the missiles, a pair of aircraft blasted past, performing their own superbly executed break, splitting wide and curving in the morning skies, faint trails of vapour gleaming from their wingtips as the two sleek, angular tactical aircraft turned to engage.

The pair were a mis-matched duo; an SU-37 Terminator and a Dassault Rafale. Both were coal-black, with the Rafale having electric blue accents on the wingtips, canards and rudder, and the Terminator having deep orange in the same places. Both also sported a horned skull insignia in various places, and the numbers '2' and '5' in gothic script. Each were laden down with ordnance, both aerial and ground-attack, and at the sight of the Black Knights, turned to engage their aircraft.

The Rafale began to pursue the Tornado, positioning itself between Marciano and Stalin, while the Terminator harassed its sukhoi stablemate, driving hard towards Charnel with the powerful radar in the SU-37's large nose hunting down the Ukranians' aircraft as it banked to 270 degrees at the apex of its' climb, hammering down hard toward his plane.

***

Scott observed the situation from his position. St. Helen had fed the image from the powerful and huge AESA radar in the ASF-14's nose to his console and he quickly assesed the situation. His ordnance for ground attack was virtually depleted.

Both Kei and Rodrieguez had more rounds to expend, however, and the airstrip was visible. The pair of bandits hadn't dallied with the ground-attack flight as of yet, and Austin looked to be in the clear too: perfect opportunity for a two-on-two.
"Short Round, Spirit. Go turn that Airstrip back into a jungle clearing. Break. Viking, this is Heartbreak; go give Charnel a hand with his new fan, I've got Stalin's tail, over"

He pushed more power into the ASF-14's engines, the wings sweeping back that little more as he climbed and banked, angling to slot in on the SU-37's tail as it dove for Stalins' jet. "Razorblade, lock that fucker up for me!" he grunted over the intercom, keeping his eyes fixed on the gleaming shimmer of the Terminator, a good half-mile distant above the sea of green below.

The skies over the airstrip were clear; the airstrip itself was nothing more than a logging camp roughly repurposed into a temporary strip. Sheds for construction equipment, now left out in the open, shielded the few light aircraft and helicopters in position, and sandbagged heavy machine-guns or truck-bed mounted guns were the only air defences along with handfuls of shoulder-fired SAMs dotted here and there.

Traces, aimed manually and fired too early or on reflex, curved wildly up into the skies along with small-arms fire, and it was easy to see people running in terror as the sounds of the oncoming jets was heard. The last Dragonfly from the earlier attack was still at the end of the runway, waiting for whatever the rebels had planned for it.

Barrel-rolling victoriously out of her latest pass in order to stay low tight and fast on the corner, Short-Round had made short-work of her foe's efforts to outflank her client in the thick forests with small and nimble boats (likely from former narcotics-smugglers). And was given token-appreciation from Constantine's forces on the ground.

But just as suddenly as they themselves appeared upon the scene, the balance of favor quickly began to shift against them all with the arrival of two sleek multinational multiroles that most definately were not part of the locals. Although she had some good air-to-air capabilities, her jet was still lugging three quarters of a ton of ordnance as Scott identified just one more target to hit: their airfield.

Although nobody would see or hear it, Kei nodded at her orders and flicked-on a tape-recording of an old song as her air-superiority fighter flirted with the idea of moving some mud to raise hell just one more time. She started her attack inverted in a high-G turn to line-up with the runway, firing a few volleys of 'nails' at anything that so much as blinked something shiny at her plane as it came barreling-in from three kilometers as her plane snaked into position for a bombing-run with her last napalm-can diagonaly across the 'strip' and hopefully into what appeared to be a control tower or bunker of some sort, likely to render the whole field useless for at least an hour.

A quick glance at her multi-function panel indicated somewhere in the mid-teens when it came to 'nails' remaining, and most of the soft targets had been well peppered already... still they had one more trick...

A 'nail', when fired at a target less than a kilometer away, behaved exatcly as the name describes: as a single solid lump of armor-penetrating hardened steel traveling at about mach 6... resaulting in lovely over-penetration as the nose breaks-up like a twenty-pound glaser-slug followed by still-burning solid rocket fuel. Only problem was that her 68mm SNEBs were never the most accurate things in the world, but at those ranges, it was pretty hard to miss. She just had to remember to pull-up, roll over, pick another target while leveling-out, fire another pair of nails, and pull-out again, rinse and repeat until either every sandbagged ammo and fuel bunker was on-fire, or her insides found a new home on the front of her visor... but in this case she simply ran out of rockets.

"Rounds complete, egressing. All yours, Spirit.

Time elapsed since first bomb: 2 minutes, 36 seconds.

The gleam from earlier unfortunately had clear hostile intentions as a duo of advanced four-point-five generation fighters screamed out of the skies and engaged Eagle Flight with the element of surprise favoring the new bandits. Going by the official markings of the black skull painted craft, it seemed apparent that these guys were mercenaries fighting for the rebels, flying professionally as they vectored in on Stalin’s Su-35 and Charnel’s Tornado; so much for this mission being a cake walk. Rodriguez grimly watched as Eagle Flight was chased by the mercenary bandits, feeling helpless as he was in no way properly equipped to deal with such advanced fighters as he waited eagerly for Scott’s orders.

"Short Round, Spirit. Go turn that Airstrip back into a jungle clearing. Break. Viking, this is Heartbreak; go give Charnel a hand with his new fan, I've got Stalin's tail, over."

It wasn’t the insane moral order that he wanted to recklessly jump on in the back of his mind but it did provide an outlet to channel his frustration on a key enemy asset that only posed more harm than any particular good to the town defenders, “Spirit, copies. We’ll erase those rebel ground assets.”

Spirit pulled his F-16 behind Short Round as she was already on top of the poor excuse of an airfield. As he closed in for his own attack run, Rodriguez watched Kei’s offensive as she blanketed the facilities and panicking personnel with more ordinance, setting and tearing pretty much both aflame and into pieces; lovely. Defense guns hopelessly fired into the sky with dwindling purpose as those without forth degree burns began to abandon the make-shift hangers and facilities with their lives as a priority. A smart move of course as Spirit had pre-lined up his Hydra 70s with the assets still on the ground, damaged or untouched.

"Rounds complete, egressing. All yours, Spirit."

Showtime. The F-16 dipped into frontal assault dive in defiance of the unsteady machine guns, tracer rounds and small arms fire whizzing by or even bouncing off the fighter just as it everything entered within Spirit’s attack range. “Knight Five, Fox 1!”

Rodriguez squeezed the weapon release and turned the rudder left to right, rotating the yaw of his fighter as the rocket launchers continuously fired non-stop as a stream of rockets roared onto the airfield like an apocalypse of fire and metal. Vehicles and aircraft trapped on the airfield by Short Round’s napalm-cleansing attack fell victim to the onslaught of rockets flattening anything and everything in the kill-zone. The assaulting destruction quickly found and poured into the abandoned facilities and sheds of aircraft with broken concrete and twisted metal flying in all directions as the end result until only an inferno remained, devouring the metal birds and ammunition in secondary detonations.

With his rocket count now fully spent, Spirit pulled up out of his attack run and into more smokeless skies. Stabilizing into an appropriate altitude over the carnage created by himself and Short Round’s assaults, Rodriguez oversaw the results of their attacks and tallied the destruction of the airfield and its assets with decreasing glimpses of surviving rebels fleeing the chaos. “Spirit to Knight One, Hearbreak. Rebel airfield neutralized, no read on any remaining resistance. Awaiting your orders.”

Before Austin could reply with a remark as he saw the A-37's turned into heaps of scrap metal, and their pilots subsequently turned into a bloody pulp which could pass for pizza sauce, the lock-on warning started up- causing him to curse under his breath. "NOW they join the party!" He said, banking his fighter left as it deployed counter-measures,his heart starting to race fast as he maneuvered for all he-and his plane- were worth. The locked-on warning was always frightening to hear because as the tone became louder and louder the father of two would see his life flash before his eyes. Luckily, the missile had a bad case of ADHD and decided to go after the flares- making Austin let out a soft sigh as the tone died off. "Sweet Mother Theresa....on the hood of a Benz, that was close!" Austin said softly, bringing his Eagle into a slow turn, the mercenary glancing around as he breathed deeply. It took him a while, but soon he spotted the coal-black fighters, Making him chuckle some as he saw the Dassault. "Seriously? A French Fighter almost claimed my life!?" He asked over the comms, his finger tapping softly as he saw the Delta-wing fighter chasing after Marciano.

"Short Round, Spirit. Go turn that Airstrip back into a jungle clearing. Break. Viking, this is Heartbreak; go give Charnel a hand with his new fan, I've got Stalin's tail, over"

"Viking Copies!" Austin responded in an instant, bringing his Jet into a high-G turn as he got himself oriented on the Coal-black fighter, his eyes focusing on it's shape as he readied the next AMRAAM "Charnel, don't get killed JUST yet!".

--

Marciano almost audibly growled as he banked left then right, diving slightly and generally tried to shake the bandit on his 6. "Aye, I'm working on that!" Hot led spat from the Rafale, barely missing the Tornado, sending the Tornado's pilot into another long strong of curses. Pouring on the speed Marciano kept weaving, keying his radio "If this keeps up I might have to go mach."

--

"Well, then, Go mach!" Viking quickly replied as he joined the midair congo line, his vision narrowing as he attempted to lock onto the Rafale. Surprisingly, the pilot of the Tornado was doing pretty good at not having a missile stuck up his ass. "Viking, Fox three!" The pilot of the Eagle called as he sent his other AMRAAM towards the Delta-wing fighter, slowing down his speed as he watched the expensive piece of military hardware go flying after it. "Charnel, Break off if you can. If he somehow survives I won't want to hit you with the cannon!".

So far, it was adding up to a very nice day

Within seconds, the temporary airstrip and it's surrounding facilities had been turned into smoking rubble. The remaining survivors were shaken and scattered, and absorbed themselves with the task of aiding the wounded, or getting whatever they could out of the wreckage after the double-whammy airstrike had shredded the place.

In the whirling melee of the dogfight, things escalated quickly. Scott was relieved to hear Austin chime in, pushing his F-15 into an attacking posture. The Rafales' pilot was obviously skilful, and more than aware of the strengths of his impressive mount. Using the delta-jets' agility, he followed Marcianos' plane through its' evasive manoeuvers with impressive grace, but the fixation on the swing-wing interceptor proved to be his weakness as Austins' AMRAAM closed in. Chaff and flares blossomed from the french-made aircraft, as it hauled into evasive patterns away from the incoming missile.

Meanwhile, Scott slalomed the ASF-14 through hard turns and banks to keep the highly agile SU-37 on his nose. A Sukhoi chasing a Sukhoi made for an extremely high-energy dogfight, as even the basic SU-27 was a highly agile plane. All of its' descendants only ramped up those aspects. And while the F-14 had its' strengths, even the enhanced version Scott and St. Helen flew couldn't perform miracles. Nonethe less, the naval aviator kept his aircraft on the tail of the jet locking up his wingman, grunting as he hauled the plane through punishing moves. Finally the reticle blinked red for his AIM-9's, and he fired a Sidewinder with a cry of 'Fox Two!' over the mic. Almost immediately the SU-37 broke off the pursuit, blurting flares and chaff as it pulled hard evasive moves, leaving Charnel free of attackers.

The SU-37 pulled into a super-hard banking climb, and evaded the majority of the missile - though the proximity fuse was armed, and the detonatation tore a chunk out of one of the horizontal stabilizers.
The Rafale suffered a similar fate; pulling hard after releasing its' decoys, the AMRAAM twisted to follow, the french-made jet sliding just outside the turn with a gleam of sunlight and streams of vapour shrouding its' upper surface in the hard turn. The AIM-120's warhead detonated moments later, riddling the portside wing with shrapnel, but the plane still keeping airborn through luck and guts.
Both planes ditched their loads moments later, and then headed for the deck at high speed, egressing the area.
"They're running!" called St. Helen over the radio. "Should we follow?"
Scott checked their fuel, and then looked over the situation. Part of him wanted to chase them down, but the defence of the local area was of more importance. He had little doubt that the Major would have more need of help, and there were other sorties waiting.
"Not this time," he said with reluctance, over the general channel. "We'll get 'em another time. Right now, let's RTB and prepare for our next sortie. I've got no doubt it'll be coming soon".

He pulled the F-14 around on a course back to their temporary base, waiting for the others to form up as he reached a cruising altitude.
"Good job, everyone," he said over the radio as he waited for them to settle into formation. "We hit 'em hard, and even managed to drive off those mercs. Reckon they'll be back again though, and not before too long now they know we're here too. Sure we'll be busy over the next few days, but keep up what happened today, and it'll all be good, over".

It was apparent that Spirit and Short Round were to remain on standby as the dogfight had quickly begun to come to a close. Heartbreak and a counterattacking Viking has tiled the odds as they launched their own missiles at the mercenary interlopers. Though the Su-37 and the Rafael were not downed, they were however damaged and that much had discouraged the two pilots from participating in the fight any longer, prompting them to bug out. Shame he couldn't join in but with his F-16's machine gun to rely on, there would have been little he could have contributed aside from harassment.

"Good job, everyone...We hit 'em hard, and even managed to drive off those mercs. Reckon they'll be back again though, and not before too long now they know we're here too. Sure we'll be busy over the next few days, but keep up what happened today, and it'll all be good, over." radioed Heartbreak.

"Copy, no doubt about that boss." Rodriguez replied over the channel, unwinding a bit from the usual chatter codes he'd normally use while forming up into his original formation position.

He then casually focused his attention to Stalin, Charnel, and Viking who unexpectedly got the rough part of the mission when the merc showed up and engaged. In his personal opinion, air-to-air ordinance proved to be a much larger calculating threat than a crude handheld SAM wield by a nervous rebel, and naturally felt concerned for his comrades. "Eagle Flight, how're you holding up? Didn't anticipate such advanced jets to jump in."

A smirk came across Austin's face as he saw the Delta-winged fighter get hit by the timed detonation of his AMRAAM, his plane already starting to turn to line him up for some shots from his 20mm. Sadly, before the purple-loving pilot could get a few shots off the call to RTB filled the comms. He would argue, but a quick glance down to his fuel gauge showed he was going to have to give up the chase as well. Without a word, he slotted into formation- looking back at his Eagle to see if the paint was A-OK.

"Eagle Flight, how're you holding up? Didn't anticipate such advanced jets to jump in."

"I wouldn't consider a Rafale an Advanced Jet.....it's French, French Don't advance....." Viking chuckled softly at the quick joke he made, looking over to the Viper as he finished checking his instruments "How was it for you guys? I could see the explosions..... kinda makes you want to break out into song when you see them!"

Short-round took-up a loose position behind Viper, in case additional mercs came to face them, she still had a pair of missiles that would prove a bit more useful at chasing away predators than a few burps from a 50 year old gatling-gun, although the fuel-gauge had her a bit concerned...

"Fresh out of nails and nape. Still have two heat on my racks and about... 60 guns remaining. Fuel, five-hundred thirty-six kay; specific consumption at... holding a bit over 50 kilos per minute..." She said, knowing that reheat would easily raise sfc to over 250 kg/min; she could very well start counting the seconds of fuel remaining for her one engine if she had to get into a dogfight.

"Good thing you managed to chase them all off in the first pass. And yes, we trashed them up good." It was probably the closest thing she could think of for a compliment.

On the flight back, she went over what had been engaged with what, and tried recalling BDA and crunching repair-times... the napalm on the strip would burn out in about 2 hours (longer than most fighters could stay up), and there weren't too many pock-marks on the strip itself aside from debris... a skilled pilot could probably land there if desperate enough...

"I suggest we report the airfield's location to Constantine's men, before it can be re-occupied. Maybe we can trick some of our mercenary-competition to land there by mistake."

Charnel looped back around to the main group, setting his wings back into their normal positions. His normal chipper expression was slightly glum under his mask, and he silently thanked that no-one could see him right now. He had hoped to at least get a few more shots off on the interlopers, but being alive would have to suffice this time. He quickly checked the status of the hound and found, much to his relief that it was undamaged as a whole, a few scratches to be buffed out but no holes in the fuselage. He was still giveing everything the once ver when his radio came alive "Eagle Flight, how're you holding up? Didn't anticipate such advanced jets to jump in."

"Im good, though I have to say, that the next person who comes at me out of the blue I call for kicking in the teeth." He grumbled into the mike "Its getting real annoying. And Viking? I'm beginning to like you more and more." As he finished his last sentence a grin once more lit up his face. Slowly banking he came into a holding pattern, this time his eyes darted between radar and sky, determined to not get jumped again. He cooled out a bit on the flight back, but still every so often he would do a quick double check.

Scott listened in on the channel as the rest of the squadron reported their states. Everyone seemed fine, and their aircraft were in one piece.
"All right, squad. Let's RTB". He angled the flight back toward their current home base, overflying the space centre en route, retracing their earlier course. Halfway back, the radio surged to life once more, this time with the familiar voice of the AWACS from their flight to French Guiana the previous day.
"Black Knights, this is Watchman. How are you all doing today? I've been keeping a track of your operation; sorry for being late on the scene. I have good news though. The transport planes with the ground reinforcements touched down ten minutes ago. Two planes have also diverted forward for a para-drop to reinforce the Majors' forces at the front edge of the battle area. You should have them on your radar now. They'll move forward to secure the rough strip as well; it should give them a forward area to use for resupply as well. We're not currently tracking the bandits, they must have retreated for now to re-organise and re-group. We're currently evaluating intel and working on a battle plan for securing the rocket once it's ready for launch, which should be within the next twelve hours. We're anticipating the enemy will make an offensive at that point if not before, so we'll have you remain on standby once you're down, over".
"Roger, Watchman," replied Scott. "Good to have you back with us, and thanks for the update. We'll be ready and waiting. Black Knights, out".

The tranport planes carrying the paratroopers were indeed visible on the radar as they hauled past, at higher altitude than the returning combat jets. Soon after, Scot lead the line-up to land on the runway at the international airport, and it was easy to see the big shapes of the Il-76 transports lined up on the apron, disgorging vehicles and helicopters alongside troops and their equipment onto the apron. The airport had turned into a hive of activity, as Thunderbolt Blacks' effort to reinforce the beleagured forces of the gendarmes and local military.
St. Helen whistled over the radio as Scott made a slow circle of the airport, lining up on the runway.
"Look at all that hardware; helicopters, light vehicles and armour. Not to mention all those pallets of weapons. I think they're serious about this reinforcement".
"Are you surprised? If that satellite doesn't get launched, the bad guys get to keep holding an axe over everyone's head with that kinetic-kills satellite. The more secure the launch the better."
Scott guided the super-tomcat onto the runway, and set it down with gentle ease, taxiing past the men and vehicles organizing into groups. Already, the first road convoy was shaping up to move out, boarding trucks with Centauro tank destroyers at the front, and light utilty vehicles and APC's scattered throughout.
Scott pulled the ASF-14 to a halt back in the aircraft dispersal area, extending the ladder as he shut the jet down. Crews swarmed out, ready to turn the squadrons' aircraft around and push them back into the revetments around the hangars. Kat's A-10 was still tucked into the hangar, covered up and sitting in wait for its' feline-hybrid pilot.
As Scott and St. Helen climbed down from their aircraft, the din of aircraft engines surrounded them, along with the continuous rumble of background noise as the base readied for the ongoing counter-offensive.
Once the others disembarked from their planes, Scott gathered them all behind the hangar, in one of the trailers that had - from somewhere - appeared as a temporary HQ at the airfield. He'd quickly reviewed the intel for the situation, and the timeline of the upcoming operation, and had easily seen where their expertise would be needed.
"All right, boys and girls. We did good out there, and gave the ground forces time to get organised and head out. Our job isn't over though; we can expect that the rebel forces will push back now that we've gave them a kick in the teeth, and that the rocket launch won't go unnoticed. The French governments' forces are only a day away, and the launch is scheduled for twelve hours from now with everything going well. So, our role from now will be to remain on standby with our aircraft fuelled, armed and ready to respond if there's anything cropping up that needs our attention. Once launch time rolls around, our main goal will be to provide a CAP over the space-centre, and to blunt any offensive by the hostiles." He checked his watch and grimaced. "It'll be a night-time launch, which means a night-time flight. I'm going to rotate everyone through four hours on-and-off alert until then, giving everyone a chance to rest up before we all fly later on." He frowned as he looked at the numerous maps and other info taped to the wall of the trailer, and scattered on the table. "There's also the hostile mercs to consider; now they know we're here, we'd better be prepared for them if we fly, and that they might try to strike the base, or the reinforcements as we move. We were lucky today: they didn't expect us, and we caught them by surprise and outnumbered. Next time, we have to act as if they're expecting us. They have powerful and advanced aircraft, and they look to be skillful and capable pilots. Don't underestimate them, and stick together if we get into a skirmish with them. That's all for now; everyone rest easy, and don't go far".
Scott dismissed the squadron, after giving them their schedule of on-off alerts.
But it wasn't going to be straightforward - Before he could begin planning the cockpit alert, Stalin approached him with bad news: the last sortie had been enough for him, and he was resigning there and then.
Regretfully, he said his goodbyes as the Flanker pilot stood himself down from duty, and set about planning to return to the island, and then to wherever else he had planned.

Splitting up the aircraft and pilots became a monumentally difficult task from there, with the uneven number of pilots and aircraft he had left. With much confusion, he re-thought his original plan. Instead of having two pilots and aircraft on each alert, he'd have one each in stints a little over two hours on notice to take off within five minutes of an alert, and the next person on the roster at ten-minute alert, with the other aircraft ready to fly within a half-hour. That way, the time was split more evenly, and everyone got more rest, and no-one would be completely on their own should anything come up.
Splitting the group up, he placed Short-round and Spirit at the head, then himself. Charnel and Viking followed up and finished off, in time for the expected launch.

There was still no word on Kat's status, but Scott ensured to enquire after her and send her well-wishes, before absorbing him in the minutiae of running the squadron; in short, paperwork, alongside his own rest time.
Good news trickled in throughout the 12-hour period; the Major's forces had, with the assistance of the reinforcements, recaptured Sinnamary completely, and pushed on, routing the enemy and driving them further back from the Space Center. The reinforcements helicoptered in had also captured the jungle airstrip and turned it into a forward operating base of their own, allowing supplies to be ferried to the forward edge of the battle area.

The end of Charnels' standby alert was close to an end when things went south. One of the crew on duty monitoring for new developments rushed out of the radio trailer and called out for the squadron. Scott hustled over, gathering the others around as the non-com quickly explained the situation. With the impending launch and the land-battle at a stalemate, the rebels had assumed a new idea; skirting around the land completely, they had begun to move down the coast via water in a flotilla of hastily armed civilian craft, and whatever small military or paramilitary vessels at their disposal. Watchman had detected air cover over the small fleet, along with transports in the air. It was a fair bet the hostile mercenaries were providing escort to both the flotilla, and whatever the transports were carrying. Their course and speed indicated a landing scheduled for around the launch time, with the obvious intent of sabotaging the launch.
"All right," Scott said quickly. "We've got no time to waste. Mixed loads of air-to-air and air-to-ground for everyone. We need to get in there and cause as much damage as possible. Send as many of those boats to the bottom, and give the mercs a thing or two that oughta make 'em reconsider. We have to hit those transports too - likely they're carrying troops and weapons to attack the space center. We have to stop that from happening, or else that satellite will be hitting more targets - maybe this time it'll be a city of thousands or worse. We can't let that happen. Everyone prep for launch, we're taking off in fifteen minutes for an intercept!"