Constellis Base, Northgard Region

Colonel Mike Alston slapped down his hand, his expert poker face contorting into a devilish grin. “Royal flush. Pay up, fuckers,” he said as he beckoned with his hand.

A flurry of groans and complaints were thrown around by his squadmates in response.

“There’s just no fucking way,” a black-haired man sighed, staring into the ceiling. “That’s twice you’ve had a royal flush this week! Don’t tell me you got magic powers or some shit.”

Mike shrugged and gave a slight smirk, “I’m just better. You’ll get me one day, Harry.”

Harry crossed his arms, opening his mouth as if he was ready to grumble further about his defeat. Before he could even utter a single word, an announcement came over the intercom, followed by flashing red lights. “Be ready to deploy within ten minutes! The Gra Valkans have begun marching toward the border!”

Mike smiled. He felt weird doing so, since his actions demonstrated his excitement to go to war. In reality, he was relieved that the boredom of the past few weeks was finally lifted. For days, he and his crew lounged about their base doing fuck all while they waited for the Gra Valkans to make a move. There was only so much more enjoyment they could get from hours of playing cards, and only so many more stories to share. If it weren’t for his ridiculous hands, he and his squadron probably would’ve gone crazy.

“Finally!” The red-haired hotshot, Eddy, said. “I was getting so damn tired of waiting.”

An aging pilot who served during the Balkan Crisis named Brandon nodded in agreement. “Nothing beats shooting down Sukhois, but fighting Valkie planes is sure to be more fun than fighting Parpie wyverns.”

“Here, here,” Mike agreed religiously, having served with Brandon during the same conflict.

The men continued their idle chatter while they walked from the hangar to the tarmac, where their jets awaited them. A row of six planes glittered under the sun, steel and glass reflecting light. The space around the planes was crowded by ground crews conducting final checks, who quickly dispersed once all preparations had been made. The pilots each took their seats, five of them entering loaned F-15C Eagles and one – Colonel Alston himself – entering an F-35A.

Mike climbed into his seat, feeling reinvigorated by the atmosphere of the cockpit. As he sealed the canopy and began to pull out onto the runway, he felt as if new life was breathed into him. After fiddling with his control panel and flicking on the necessary switches, he maneuvered his plane onto the center of the runway. Following the guidance of the aircraft marshallers on the ground, he ignited his engines and began to take off.

The engine roared as flames spewed out the back, the acceleration pressing him against the back of his seat. The snow-covered grass around the runway whizzed past, turning into a blur as his F-35 sped up. Mike soon found himself in the air, flying higher than anyone else in the history of the Mu continent. He looked around him, seeing glimpses of his squadron past the kaleidoscope of sublimating frost. The melted water flew off the canopy, dropping behind him as he led his men toward the front lines.

Data from drones and other feeds complemented his sensors, apprising him of important information from enemy positions to terrain. While the F-35 computer analyzed and distributed the data to his squadron, he and his men received a transmission from the base. “Spare Squadron, mission parameters have been updated. Once you’ve eliminated all Gra Valkan bombers and escorting aircraft, you are to bomb hostile artillery and logistics targets behind enemy lines. Targeting data will be uploaded after you’ve cleared the skies. Good hunting and Godspeed.”

Mike glanced at the hostile radar contacts on his screen. As described in previous intelligence reports, the number of enemy bombers and fighters were 60 and 45, respectively. It was clear that the Gra Valkan objective was to wipe out the meager defenses of the Northgard region in order to clear out a flanking path. However, what they didn’t anticipate was the fact that Americans would be defending this region as mercenaries.

Six jets streaked across the cloudy skies, cruising without care while automated systems locked on to targets beyond visual range. They were the lone rulers of the skies, entrusted with the defense of the Northgard region by the Muans, who deployed no aerial assets for fear of getting in the way. With no friendly fire to worry about, the radar contacts on their screens were all fair game.

Mike rested his gloved hand on his joystick, waiting for the lock on signal. Upon hearing the appropriate electronic tone, he launched his missiles. “Fox Three!”

A total of 46 AIM-120 AMRAAMs cut through the air as they raced to their targets, leaving behind trails of wispy smoke that blended in with the gray background of the skies. Seeing the missiles shrink in the distance, Mike released a sigh. “This feels just like fighting Parpie wyverns, honestly.”

Brandon responded in kind, “You know what, you’re absolutely right, Trigger. Let’s RTB?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “All units, RTB for resupply. Once we clean up the rest of the enemy planes we’ll load up on bombs to take out the designated targets.”

The six jets turned around almost immediately after firing their missiles. With moderate g-forces forcing the men into their seats, they exited the battlefield without even coming close to the enemy. Paying little attention to the fates they had sealed, they made their way back to the Constellis airfield to restock their missiles.

—-

Mu-Leifor Border, Northgard Region

GVAF 11th Air Wing

Surrounded by the mundane droning of his Antares’ engine and those of the planes around him, Svaun lost the luster of excitement that had graced him when he heard he was finally deploying against the Muans. The longer the mission progressed, the more he realized that he would barely see any heart-pounding action. The frigid Northgard tundra was poorly defended, according to intelligence gathered by scouts – to the extent that they couldn’t find any Muan airfields in the vicinity of the local base.

The lack of Muan defenses initially bothered Svaun, but it could be a result of a whole host of reasons, from the Muans being as weak as his superiors claimed to their overreliance on the Northgard environment to deter the Gra Valkan military. Even if all of these reasons were true and Mu needed planes elsewhere, he still felt as if something was terribly wrong.

“Jon, doesn’t this feel too easy, even for Mu?” Svaun asked his wingman over the radio.

“I was thinking the same thing… Now that you mention it, I heard that the Navy and Army had a lot of difficulty fighting the Nigrati and Sonalans.”

Svaun smiled in relief, appreciative that someone shared his concerns. “We’re fighting a nation that’s supposedly out of the league of these other countries. For them to show so little resistance feels… wrong,” he said, stressing the word. “It’s like we’re walking into a trap.”

“Trap or not, orders are orders,” Jon said. “Even if it were a trap, I doubt they could do much. It’s easier to conduct ambushes on the ground or at sea, but in the air? Our equipment is just too advanced for them to catch up to us.”

Svaun thought about his friend’s words. Guns from the modern era kill just as easily as muskets from centuries past. Cannons and bombs could still damage a slow-moving warship, but what could be done against aircraft? Nothing came to mind, reassuring Svaun. “I suppose you’re right. Maybe we –” he cut himself off, noticing that the radio began to crackle with static. “Jon?”

There was no response; only the sound of static. Svaun looked to his right and sure enough, his wingman was still there. The issue seemed to be affecting him as well, if his frantic waving and gesturing was any clue.

Svaun wondered if it was localized to his and his wingman’s planes, but soon dismissed the thought and wisened up. There was no way this was a coincidence; it had to be deliberate interference caused by the enemy. He remembered stories from prior battles fought in Sonal and Nigrat. There, radio and radar interference blanketed allied forces right before an enemy attack.

With no way to communicate his realization to his comrades, the best he could do was hope that they recognized the pattern as well. Judging by the wary movements of his allies, he could tell that most of them figured out what was going on. Everyone was clearly on high alert. This state of tension lasted for a few minutes without anything happening, adding to the anxiety that currently plagued the entire air wing.

Then, one of the lead fighters banked hard to the right, trying to roll out of the way of something. It then turned downward to dive, but spontaneously detonated before it could even descend a mere 100 feet. Time appeared to slow down as the explosive fireball expanded outward from the plane’s left wing, where it was struck earlier.

Before Svaun could react to the attack, another fireball erupted in the Gra Valkan ranks, followed by another, and another. Soon enough, a total of 46 planes were downed: 1 Antares fighter and 45 Vega bombers. The shocking spectacle was received with skepticism by Svaun, who couldn’t believe his eyes.

He closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously, wondering if it was all a dream. To his and his surviving comrades’ great dismay, this was no dream. He opened his eyes and returned to the horrific scene of scorched metal airframes tumbling out of the sky and bodies flailing about as they dropped like rocks. This was the horrible reality of modern warfare, heard only in battlefield rumors.

As an avid fantasy enthusiast, Svaun indulged in the history of Elysia, learning about local cultures and current events throughout the world. He frequented local establishments out of uniform — due to the negative stigma against Gra Valkans — and often tuned in to MNN broadcasts. When he first heard of jets that flew faster than sound and rockets that could track and follow their targets, he initially thought it was propaganda.

His whole world was turned upside down when he saw the American airshow and Comet-1 test during the World Leadership Conference. It was made clear that there was truth to what he initially perceived as propaganda, but despite recognizing these new weapons as reality, he could never quite fathom their existence. He also never believed that he would be on the receiving end of such insane weapons, as he was currently.

A million questions raced through his mind, from wondering why his air wing was hit by American weapons to figuring out a way to fight back. He looked around, noticing that his surviving allies were continuing forward. No new missiles came forward to hit the group, so everyone must have assumed that the attack was over.

However, Svaun knew better than to be lured into a false sense of security. Several more minutes passed by in silence until they finally saw their targets in the distance. The rows of barracks and artillery platforms contrasted themselves clearly from the snowy-white background of the surrounding environment. However, so too did the new glints in the sky, made visible by sunlight shining through an opening in the clouds.

These were the same missiles that had so easily annihilated dozens of planes. These were the same weapons of destruction that the Gra Valkas Empire had no way to counter. Having formed a plan in the minutes of inaction prior to this engagement, he knew exactly what to do.

Without a second thought, Svaun slowed down his plane and unfastened his seatbelt. Then, he popped open the canopy and climbed out, fighting against the ferocious headwinds as he leaned over the side with a parachute fastened to his back. Then, carefully angling himself so he wouldn’t strike his plane’s tail, he jumped.

Wind pushed up against his body as he accelerated to the ground. A bright light then washed over his peripheral vision, accompanied by the sound of an explosion as his plane was destroyed, mere moments after he had bailed out. More explosions blossomed around him, each one engulfing a plane with uncanny accuracy and power.

Some of his comrades had the same idea, but a few were too late to the punch. He winced as he saw men getting caught up by the blasts, or slamming into their out-of-control planes as they attempted to escape. The remaining bomber crews were even worse off, trapped in their metal coffins until the very end.

Alas, there was nothing he could do about it. As he approached the ground, he pulled his parachute and looked around. It was too difficult to find his wingman among his fellow pilots, so he instead looked down.

Already, numerous vehicles were surrounding the parachuting pilots, soldiers pouring out and aiming their guns at them. They waited patiently for the Gra Valkans to land, yelling for them to surrender once they hit the ground.

Svaun complied, putting his hands in the air while looking around. His heart lifted when he found his friend, but before he could say anything he was drowned out by the sound of jets booming overhead. Five similar-looking jets flew in a chevron formation with one more advanced-looking one flying behind the others, causing many of the Muans to cheer.

They flew low enough so that the men on the ground could easily tell that the planes were painted with the Muan flag, which made Svaun wonder what the Americans were up to. Regardless of whose flag the machines flew, it was obvious that the war’s outlook had shifted from a solid victory to a struggling defeat. It was only a matter of time before the Gra Valkas Empire lost. Although Svaun lamented this inevitability, he found solace in the fact that at the very least, he and his friend were alive.