Scott advanced the throttle on the A-7 as the F-16 with Miku in control thundered into the sky ahead of him. 
Turning full onto the runway, he ran the engine up to speed, before toeing off the brakes. The engine roared, reverberating through the airframe as the pug-nosed jet began to roll. Gathering speed, the outside turned to a blur of brown and green, before he pulled the stick smoothly back toward his stomach, and the nose came unglued from the ground. He kept the takeoff climb smooth, as the A-7 didn't have the most powerful of engines for its' size and weight.
Taking a gentle turn into the right heading, he kept the altitude coming until he reached an optimum cruise altitude for the course to Oured at best speed. He knew that the others would leave him behind in short order, and it was more than likely that he'd arrive late to the battle; another flag pointing out clearly that the Corsair wasn't designed or adept at air-to-air combat. But all the same, he'd throw his lot in and engage as best he could.

The journey passed in near silence, with the rest of the squadron leaving him well behind in their much faster aircraft. When he finally did arrive, he could pick out the scene from miles out. The skies were crossed with tracers and contrails, and light glinted off of fighters and missiles as they drew lines and arcs through the skies above the sprawling Osean capital. 
He absorbed the info from the AWACS with a 'roger', his mind awash with possibilities. Yuktobanian and Estovakian forces, here? Why? What was going on that had set them against Osea? 
It was a staggering prospect: Oured was a hell of a slog from either of those countries, especially so without being intercepted or shot down. What was going on here that allowed these light aircraft to get so far?
Whatever the reasons, the intelligence agencies would sort that out. His job was clear: Shoot down the bandits, and keep Oured from being any more devastated than it had been already. Pulling a smooth wing-over, Scott dropped like a stone and rolled out, clean and clear onto the tail of a Stovie F-4 that was bearing down on a Mirage. The lock sounded as a growling tone in his ears as the crosshairs dropped over the hefty silhouette of the phantom. Making sure the weapons selector was set to 'MSL' with a glance, he thumbed the trigger at the top of the stick, and an SDM rocketed free of the leftmost pod on the wing, arcing away in a trail of white smoke. 
Unwilling to make himself a target by staying in one position too long, the naval aviator rolled the Corsair onto its' left wing and into a loop around, inverting the bank to belly-check part way through. As normal, the G's threw him back in the seat, and the cockpit was a dazzle of changing light and shade as he came about, but his eyes were focused outside on the next target-
There! A MiG-21, its' shape a silver cylinder glittering in the sun as it threaded its' way through the conflagration and toward him. Standing hard on his rudder, Romeo bought the plane around. Too close and too quick for a missile shot; he selected GUNS from his fire selector and lead the pipper ahead of the Fishbed, before squeezing the trigger. The chainsaw-buzz of the Vulcan under his feet to the right throbbed through his seat, and the line of tracers lashed out in a slight arc, and intersected the MiG. Debris showered off of the hostile fighter, followed by smoke and puffs of flame, and then it was out of range and sight, and he continued his bank around, bringing the A-7 back into the melee.