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Old 02-19-2018, 09:47 PM
Matt Wiser Matt Wiser is offline
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Join Date: Sep 2008
Location: Auberry, CA
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Second strike of the day:


Over Central Texas, 1030 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, following their pre-strike refueling. The tanker track was a busy one, with KC-135s, KC-10s, and Marine KC-130s busy passing fuel to aircraft that needed it, and as the crews topped off their tanks, they also noticed the F-14s and F-15s orbiting on CAP. Not only were they protecting the tankers, but there were other high value assets-like AWACS and RC-135s-around, and those needed protection. Ivan had come north after the AWACS in the past, and they would likely try again.

As the strike flight headed south along the Brazos, Guru had his head on a swivel. He was checking his instruments, then he was keeping an eye out for threats, then checking his EW display. So far, so good. All clear, and even the Red AWACS to the south wasn't showing up. Had somebody done something about it? Guru hoped so. “Granbury coming up?”

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie said. She was paying attention to the navigation, and not just with the DMAS and the INS, but also the old-fashioned way: compass, stopwatch, and a map. But she, too, like the other GIBs, also scanned visually for threats, and checked her own EW display. “Sky's clear.”

“For now,” Guru said. Then the U.S. 377 bridge appeared, and the East German flak gunners opened up, as usual, from the west side. The Nicaraguans to the east, though, rarely shot at them, unless they had been attacked earlier, and this time, their guns stayed silent.

“No traffic on the bridge,” Goalie observed as Rambler Flight blew past.

“Maybe next time,” Guru said. “Granbury Dam next up.”

“Copy that,” Goalie replied. “Forty-five seconds. One minute thirty to the Glen Rose Bridge.” That was U.S. 67.

The flight continued south, hugging the east shore of Lake Granbury, and as the Dam became visible, the AAA from the west side came up.

“East Germans are active today,” Guru observed as the flak puffs appeared. None were close, but still, some East German might get lucky....fortunately, Rambler Flight was too fast to track visually.

“We're not the only ones who have to earn our pay,” Goalie quipped. “Forty-five seconds to Glen Rose.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. He checked his EW display and a strobe appeared, followed by the SEARCH warning light. “Got a strobe at One,” he called.

“Got it,” Goalie said. “Want to bet it's that Mainstay again?” She was referring to the Soviets' Il-76 Mainstay AWACS, of which there were several in theater.

“No bet,” Guru replied. Hopefully, they were far enough away, and too low, to be picked up. He called their own AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Warlock,” an AWACS controller replied. “Threat bearing One-six-five for fifty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-eight-five for sixty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-one-five for eighty. Medium, going away.”

“Roger, Warlock,” Guru replied. Almost immediately, the Glen Rose Bridge appeared. And so did the AAA from the west side of the Brazos.

“Glen Rose,” Goalie called. “East Germans are right on time,” she said as the flak-both 23-mm and 57-mm-came up. “Thirty seconds to the Brazospoint Bridge, and two minutes to the North Lake Whitney Bridge,” she said. The latter was State Route 174. But the former, though, signaled Libyan-occupied territory, and the Libyans would shoot. And keep shooting even after the strike birds had left.

“Got it,” Guru said. A quick look at the EW showed that strobe still there. “Flight, Lead. Music on,” he ordered. That meant to turn on their ECM pods.

Kara replied, “Roger, Lead,” and the others followed.

Goalie checked her map, then the INS, then called, “Brazospoint coming up.”

“Got it,” Guru said. And this time, there was flak coming from both sides as both East Germans and Libyans were shooting. One could tell the difference, though. The Libyans hardly aimed and simply sprayed fire into the air. The East Germans at least tried to hit what they were aiming at, but the F-4s were too low and too fast to properly track.

“One minute thirty to the 174 Bridge.”

“Copy,” Guru replied. Then he got on the line to the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats.”

The controller replied at once. “Rambler, Warlock. Threat bearing One-seven-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-nine-zero for sixty-five. Medium, going away. Third threat bearing Two-one-zero for seventy-five Medium, closing.”

“Roger that, Warlock,” said Guru.

“One minute to North Lake Whitney,” Goalie said.

“Lead, Sweaty. Those Libyans are still shooting,” Sweaty called.

Beneath his oxygen mask, Guru smiled. Qaddafi's boys were living up to their reputation. “Let'em,” he replied.

Goalie then called, “Thirty seconds.”

The flight thundered along the Brazos, and then the Route 174 Bridge appeared. Guru made the call. “Bridge dead ahead,” he said. “Flak at Eleven, and at One.” The Libyan and East German gunners were quick to shoot as soon as the American aircraft appeared. “Follow me.” He dropped even lower than their initial ingress altitude of 450 feet, down to 300, as they blew past the bridge and Lake Whitney opened up.

“One minute thirty to turn point,” Goalie said after they went past the bridge.

“Got it,” Guru said. He checked the EW display. The strobe was still there, but not as bright. Good. Maybe dropping lower over the lake meant that the Mainstay had lost them-if it had acquired them in the first place.


As Rambler Flight headed south, the usual mix of locals, Soviet, East German, and Libyan soldiers, all looking to supplement their rations with a fresh catch from the lake, were fishing. Some had rowboats, but most were fishing from the lakeshore. The locals waved at the F-4s as they flew by, not knowing if the pilots could see them, while the soldiers more often as not, looked at each other. If the Yankees were flying into liberated territory with impunity, even if the Socialist Bloc Air Forces controlled the skies, then that boast made by many a political officer was clearly untrue. And if that was the case, how much else of the bullshit they had been fed was also a lie?

The locals, for their part, smiled and shook hands. Seeing the Air Force going after those Red bastards meant the front lines were getting closer. Wouldn't be long now, then the Army gets here, they thought.


“How long to the turn point?” Guru asked his GIB.

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie said. She started mentally counting down. “Turn in five, four, three, two, one...NOW!”

Guru put 512 into a hard right turn, and lined up on a course of Two-seven-zero. Twenty-four miles to Meridian, and that meant another ninety seconds. But... “EW still has the search radar.” Guru said. They had climbed from 300 to 400 feet AGL.

“He might have us,” Goalie noted. “One minute thirty to Meridian.”

“Maybe,” replied Guru. So far, no additional radars coming up, though they were now in what Intel said was the 4th Guards Tank Army's area.

“One minute,” Goalie said as they drew closer.

“Copy.”

“Thirty seconds,” said Goalie. “No other radars.”

“Flight, Lead. Maintain visual scanning,” Guru reminded the others. “No radars doesn't mean they're not there.”

“Meridian coming up. And....turn,” Goalie told Guru as the flight flew over the center of town.

“Turning to Two-five-zero,” Guru said. “No flak.”

“Good to see.”

In Meridian, the Soviets from the 144th GMRD's 254th GMRR were wondering what was coming next. They had been through a buzz saw earlier in the week, and now, the Americans were bombing their assembly areas. The mostly Estonian reservists who made up the division's rank and file had had a rude awakening to combat, and their officers, mostly Russians, also had a similar wakeup to what combat was really like. Those who had survived, that is, as the regimental commander in Meridian remarked to his Chief of Staff.

Now, the new divisional commander had arrived, and he was having a look for himself. The new commander had been appointed by General Suraykin to take over the division, when 4th Guards Tank Army had found out the lieutenant colonel acting commander had run a battalion before, and with all four maneuver regimental commanders either dead or in the hospital, and the divisional staff in tatters after American air and artillery strikes, an experienced hand was needed.

Major General Nikolai Malyshev had seen it before: in Missouri the previous year, when he took over the 6th Guards Motor-rifle Division at General Suraykin's request, and led it out of the Ozarks, though a shadow of its former self. He had supervised the rebuilding of the 6th Guards, before Moscow wanted him back to lecture on the Missouri Offensive at the Freunze Academy. As a result, he'd missed Wichita, and Suraykin had asked for his old classmate to come back. Though Suraykin had a Chief of Staff, he wanted Malyshev to help rebuild units that had been shattered, and if necessary, take command and get them back into shape. From what he'd seen of the 144th, which had expected to only run into American paratroopers, only to be shot up by what General Suraykin's intelligence officer said was the First Cavalry Division and the Third Armored Cavalry Regiment. As a result, the division was now combat ineffective, even by Soviet standards, and General Suraykin wanted an expereienced commander to get the division ready to return to combat.

Malyshev had just gotten out of an APC-a BTR-60PB was not likely to attract attention from American aircraft, and the American Resistance was not very active here, but still, an APC was safer than a staff car. He was looking for the acting Regimental Commander when shouts of “AIR ALARM!” sounded. Malyshev looked up, and four F-4 Phantoms flew over the town, turning to the southwest as they did so. Despite the presence of the Soviets, Malyshev heard cheers from the local population, and shook his head. At least they're not hitting this regiment today, he thought as he went to find the acting regimental commander.


“Steady on two-four-zero,” Guru said after the turn.

“Roger that,” replied Goalie. “One minute thirty to Fairy,” she added.

“Copy,” Guru replied. A quick glance at the EW display still showed that SEARCH radar. “Damned Mainstay.”

In the back seat, Goalie saw it as well. “He's had us since when?”

“Granbury,” Guru spat. “Somebody needs to do something about him.” He scanned the sky around and it was clear. And Kara was right with him, while Sweaty and Hoser were on the left.

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie called. The town soon appeared, and the term “town” was an understatement. Just a few houses and a church. “Turn....NOW!”

“Roger that,” Guru said, turning roughly north, picking up and following F.M. 1602.

“Thirty seconds to pull,” Goalie said. “Switches?

“Set 'em up,” acknowledged Guru. “Everything in one pass.” Then he called the flight. “Flight, Lead. Switches on and stand by to pull.”

She worked the armament panel, then replied, “All set.”

“Copy that,” Guru said. “Ready to pull.”

“Pull in five, four, three, two, one, PULL!”

Guru pulled up, and sure enough, the ranch ponds appeared. And so did the U.S. 281 bridge to the north, along with the town of Hico. No radars on the EW other than the Mainstay....and there was the fuel dump, as advertised. “Ready?”

“Born ready,” Goalie replied. “All set back here.”

“Roger that!” Guru said. “Flight, Lead. Target in sight.” Then he went down on his bomb run.


In Hico, the East German Major who commanded the garrison was still not in a good mood. The Soviet Rear-Area Protection troops had flatly refused to mount any sort of patrols outside town, other than a ten-kilometer radius along U.S. 281 and State Highway 6, and, given the average age of the reservists who had manned the division was forty, he was not surprised in the slightest. Though the Stasi officer assigned to him still insisted there were “Counterrevolutionary bandits and Fascist elements in the area,” the lack of any serious guerrilla activity would have told him otherwise. But the occasional slashed tire, anti-Soviet art on the walls, snipped telephone lines, and the occasional sniper fire told the Major that the underground in the area was laying low, biding its time until the U.S. Army moved further south. At least that PSD swine is out of my hair, the Major thought. A newly arrived T-54 tank had run over the man as it was being unloaded from a tank transporter, and no one shed a tear-even the Stasi man had his own disagreements, and the townspeople felt they were better off with him out of the way.

The Major was still concerned about the lack of serious AA defenses, though. Apart from some machine guns, a few ZU-23s around the fuel dump at the 281 bridge, and a few others at the truck park, the only real AA guns were a battery of 61-K (M-1939) 37-mm guns belonging to the Soviet Rear-Area Protection Troops, and they were next to useless against modern aircraft, being visually aimed. As for missiles? The only SAMs he had were Strela-3 (SA-14) shoulder-fired missiles used by both his men and the Russians. At least there were missile gunners on the roofs of several buildings, the Major thought.

So far, they hadn't been bombed yet, but the Major knew it was only a matter of time. He returned to his desk, when he heard shouting outside his office window. The Major opened the window, and heard two words that chilled his heart. “AIR RAID!” Instead of going to the basement, the Major ran to the roof, followed by several other officers.


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called as he rolled 512 in on his bomb run. He picked out the fuel dump, and as he came in, the gunners down below began shooting. The softball-sized tracers coming up meant ZU-23s, and whoever down there was shooting, they weren't accurate. Someone even shot an SA-7 type missile at him-from head on, and that missile was simply a fireworks display as the weapon flew past 512 without guiding. Ignoring the flak, Guru lined up the fuel dump in his pipper. Good morning, Franz....this is your wake-up call, he thought. “Steady....Steady.....And....HACK!” Guru hit the pickle button, releasing his twelve Mark-82 Snakeyes down onto the fuel dump, then he pulled up and away, As he did both he and Goalie noticed some small puffs of smoke just below the aircraft. Looked like 37-mm. No matter, for 512 pulled away from the area, jinking to avoid flak. “Lead off target.”


“Of all the...” the Major muttered as Guru's F-4 went down on the fuel dump. He watched the bombs being released, then the F-4 pulled up as the bombs landed in the dump and exploded, sending up orange and black fireballs as fuel drums and tanks exploded. A soldier on a nearby building fired an Strela-3, but the weapon failed to track. Cursing, the Major scanned the sky, wondering when the next one was coming. He didn't have long, for another Imperialist F-4 was coming in.

“SHACK!” Goalie yelled from 512's back seat. “We got the fuel dump!”

“Secondaries?” Guru asked, though he knew that any kind of bomb inside a fuel dump would produce that result. He continued jinking to avoid any flak or MANPADS,

“Big ones!”

“Their lucky day,” Guru said as he headed west towards Proctor Lake.


“Two in hot!” Kara called out as she brought 520 in on the bomb run. She saw the CO make his run, and the results were very satisfying, for several fireballs erupted in 512's wake. Kara then came down on the truck park, and there was some flak coming up from there, as well as outside the fuel dump. Those gunners have guts, shooting when there's a big fire behind them, she thought. Ignoring the 23-mm tracers and the 37-mm, Kara picked out several trucks in her pipper. Your turn, she said to herself. “And.....And...Steady.....NOW!” She hit the pickle button, releasing her Mark-82s onto the truck park. Then she pulled wings level and applied power as she egressed the area, jinking as she did. “Two's off safe.”


The East German Major groaned, then he heard his Political Officer mutter, “This can't be happening.” Ignoring the Party man for the present, he watched as Kara's F-4 came in, and laid down its bombs onto the truck park south of town. A dozen bomb blasts followed in the Phantom's wake, augmented by a couple of fireballs ignited by the bombs. Fuel trucks going, the Major knew. He saw the gunners on the rooftops firing, but their fire was either short, or wide, of the target, for they weren't using the proper lead. Shaking his head, he turned to the east, and saw another speck approaching, then one behind it. Two more coming in.


“GOOD HITS!” Brainiac yelled in 520's back seat. “We got secondaries!”

“How many?” Kara asked as she kept jinking, and saw an SA-7 fly harmlessly above the aircraft.

“Several.”

“I'll take those,” Kara said as she set course westwards, and picked up the CO's bird as she did. Now, she thought, hope we get a MiG scramble out of Brownwood...


Sweaty rolled in on her run. “Three's in hot!” She called as she came down on the fuel dump. As she did, there were more secondaries going off as more fuel drums or tanks exploded from the fires. More where that came from, she said to herself as she noticed some undamaged stacks of fuel drums-and were those fuel trucks as well? No matter. You're all going up today. Sweaty noticed the flak coming up, and ignored it, concentrating on the bomb run. She lined the fuel drums in her pipper and got ready. “Steady....And...Steady...And....NOW!” Sweaty hit her pickle button and released her Snakeyes, and a dozen more five-hundred pound bombs fell into the fuel dump. She then pulled up and away, and began jinking to throw off the aim of the flak gunners. “Three's off target.”

“Schisse...” the Major said. He'd hoped that maybe, the American pilot would have seen the fireballs going up and aborted the run. But Sweaty's F-4 came in and released, and its bombs fell within the blazing fuel dump, and more fireballs erupted as fuel drums and tanks went up. The Major glanced at the Political Officer, who was, for once, now speechless as the sight of American aircraft-and the now audible cheering from the local population, put paid to the Party line of the “Socialist Air Forces controlling the skies of Texas.” Careful not to show his slight grin, he watched as another Phantom came in.


“SHACK!” Preacher yelled in Sweaty's back seat. “We have secondaries!”

“What kind?” Sweaty wanted to know as she kept jinking. “Righteous ones?”

“Good enough for the man upstairs,” the ex-Seminary student turned weapon-systems officer replied. Wonder what Reverend Fisher back at the Seminary would think of that, Preacher thought.

“Good enough for him, good enough for me,” said Sweaty as she stopped jinking and turned west for Proctor Lake.

“Four's in!” Hoser called as he came down on the truck park. He noticed that the flak from the fuel dump had stopped, but the gunners at the truck park-and some from the town, were still shooting. Ignoring the tracers, as well as an SA-7 that flew above his aircraft, Hoser concentrated on his bomb run. He picked out several trucks in the park, and lined them up in his pipper. They grew larger as he came in on the run. “And....Steady....Steady.....NOW!” Hoser hit his pickle button, sending his dozen Snakeyes down onto the trucks below. He pulled up and away, and as he did, he was jinking to avoid flak. “Four is off safe,” Hoser called.


“Damnt!” The East German Major yelled as Hoser's F-4 made its run. He watched as the bombs came off the aircraft, and landed in the truck park. As the bombs went off, he saw several trucks tossed aside like leaves, or take direct hits and become rubbish blowing in the wind. Two or three fireballs of exploding fuel trucks added to the carnage, he noticed. After the last F-4 flew away, the anti-aircraft gunners kept shooting, much to the Major's disgust. He ordered his deputy to send runners to the guns with orders to stop. And he-and the others on the roof-heard the cheers and applause of the locals. Shaking his head, and knowing that this might not be the last, he began issuing orders. Time to get this place back in order.


“GOOD HITS!” KT hollered from the back seat. “Got some secondaries!”

“Good ones?” Hoser asked as an SA-7 flew past on the left side.

“Good ones, and a couple of good fireballs,” she replied. “That good enough?”

Hoser said, “They'll be good.” He then headed west for Proctor Lake, and picked up his element lead, Sweaty, as he did so.


In 512, Guru heard the calls. “Four in and four out.”

“And we still have a game on,” Goalie said. “One minute to Proctor Lake.”

“Copy,” replied Guru. He took a look at the EW, and saw the strobe from that Red AWACS still there. He then called, “Two, you out there?”

“Right with you,” Kara replied.

Guru took a look to the right, and 520 was right with him in Combat Spread. “Got a visual. Sweaty, how about you?”

“Coming up, and Hoser's with me,” his second element lead called.

“Gotcha,” Guru said. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Warlock. Threat bearing Two-four-zero for forty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-eight-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-six-five for seventy. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Warlock.” Guru said. He had leveled out at 500 feet AGL, and was doing 540 Knots. The Central Texas landscape of ranching country and rolling hills turned into prairie as the strike flight approached Proctor Lake. Then Guru looked at his EW display. Not only did the Mainstay radar still show, but another radar appeared at their Eleven O'Clock. “Got a radar at eleven.”

“That'll be Brownwood Regional,” Goalie said. That meant Brownwood Regional Airport, and the two MiG regiments based there.

“Hope they're not paying attention,” Guru said as the lake appeared dead ahead. And so did the flak as the 23-mm and 57-mm guns defending the dam opened up. “Lake at twelve, and flak.”

“Got it, Lead,” replied Kara. “No bandits.”

“Not now,” Guru said as he turned north, roughly parallel to State Route 16, and blowing past the town of DeLeon, and the Soviets from the 32nd Army who were there. The appearance of the F-4s had been a surprise, for none of the air-defense assets reacted to their presence.

Goalie did some quick calculations. “One minute thirty to the fence,” she called. That meant the FLOT, and in this part of Texas, that also meant I-20.

“Roger that.”

“Rambler, Warlock. Threat bearing One-eight-five for forty. Medium, closing,” the AWACS controller warned. “Bandits are Fishbeds.”

“Copy, Warlock.” Guru then asked, “Red or black?” Red bandits were Soviets. Black, East Germans. Blue meant Cubans, while Green meant Libyans.

“Rambler, Warlock. Fishbeds are black,” the controller said. That meant East German MiG-21s.

Guru thought for a moment. So far, the EW still showed the Search radars-the Mainstay and the ground radar at Brownwood. No air-to-air radars yet, and the Jay Bird radar in the MiG-21 had no look-down/shoot-down mode.
“Roger, Warlock,” said Guru.

“Forty-five seconds to the fence,” Goalie advised.

“Lead, we going to give these guys a fight?” Kara asked. Ever aggressive, she was looking for a brawl.

“Only if they jump us,” Guru said.

“Rambler, Warlock. Bandits have turned. Now One-eight-zero for forty. Medium, going away.”

In 520, Kara muttered a few curses. Nine kills to her credit, and she wanted to be the first female double ace in the 335th, if not Tenth Air Force. But the day wasn't over just yet.

“Roger, Warlock,” Guru replied.

“Fence ahead,” Goalie said. The twin ribbons of I-20 appeared up ahead.

“Got it.” Just as the flight crossed the interstate, both the ground radar at Brownwood and the Mainstay radar went off the EW display, and the SEARCH warning light went off. “And we're clear of the fence,” Guru said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Time to take a drink, then go home,” said Goalie. That meant the post-strike refueling, then back to Sheppard.

“It is that.”

Rambler Flight then headed for the tanker track, and they drank some fuel from KC-10s this time. Then the flight headed back to Sheppard.

When they got there, the flight was second in the landing pattern, with a Marine Hornet flight ahead of them, and behind was the westbound C-141. After landing, they taxied towards their squadron dispersal, and this time, as was now usual, the news crew was filming. “They're back,” Guru noted.

“They'll be busy when General Yeager and those young pups leave,” Goalie reminded him.

“No doubt. Hell of a way to initiate a new PAO,” Guru thought out loud. “Well, she needs to get her feet wet.”

“That she does,” Goalie agreed.

The flight taxied to the dispersal area, and taxied into their revetments. Guru taxied 512 into its revetment, and followed his Crew Chief's signals. After parking, and popping the canopies, the ground crew brought out the chocks, then the CC gave the “Shut down” signal.

After shutting down, both pilot and GIB went through the post-flight check, while the ground crew brought the crew ladder. Once down from the aircraft, Guru and Goalie took off their helmets, then they did a quick post-flight walk-around. Then Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief, came over with a bottle of water for each. “Sir, Ma'am, how'd it go?”

“Made a fuel dump go away,” Guru said after he took a long drink.

“Away as in sky-high,” Goalie added. She, too, took a long swig of water.

Crowley smiled. “Major, Lieutenant? Good for them,” he said. “How's the bird?”

“Five-twelve's working like a champ, Sergeant,” Guru said. “Get some chow, then get her ready for the next one.”

“Yes, sir,!” Crowley said. “All right people!” He said to the ground crew. “Finish up the post-flight, chow down, then we get the CO's bird ready for another one.”

Nodding, Guru and Goalie headed for the revetment's entrance. “I'll see about cutting those orders for his R&R today,” Guru said.

“When's the last time he went?” Goalie asked. “Don't think he's missed a day in a while.”

“I'll check when I'm taking care of his R&R orders.”

When they got to the entrance, Guru and Goalie found Kara and Brainiac waiting. “How'd it go with you two?” Kara asked. “That truck park's now a junkyard.”

“Torched a lot of gas,” Guru replied.

“We saw your run,” Brainiac said. “Lots of fireballs there.”

Sweaty and Preacher, along with Hoser and KT, came up. “And there were some you guys had,” she said. “Fuel dump? More like inferno now.”

“That it is,” Hoser added. “What about those MiGs?”

“Mainstay and the ground radar didn't pick us up,” Guru said. “No contact, so they didn't try and give us a fight.”

“Too bad,” Kara grumbled.

Sweaty shook her head. “So what happened?”

“My guess, they couldn't get us on the Mainstay or ground radar, and they couldn't get a visual, either. So no joy on their part,” Hoser said. He'd been near the top of his class at the RTU, and Guru, along with some others in the squadron, felt he had the makings of a potential Aggressor pilot-if he lived through the war.

“We can take a MiG-21 down low,” Goalie said. “But up high, it's their game.”

“It is that,” Kara agreed. “So, now what, Boss?”

Guru nodded. “We debrief, then you all need to check your desks. Then we can give Yeager's people a proper sendoff. After that? Eat, and get ready to do this all over again.”

“Too bad those F-20 clowns are leaving today,” Hoser growled. “Got some unfinished business with those guys.”

“Same here,” Sweaty added. She and Preacher had been “Killed” in the DACT, and by General Yeager, no less.

Kara nodded, as did Brainiac. “Glad to know I'm not the only one thinking that.”

“Save it until after the war, people,” Guru said firmly. “I know, we've all got unfinished business with those guys. We'll take care of it after the war.”

“If we all live that long,” KT reminded everyone.

Heads nodded at that little detail. “Something to keep in mind,” the CO said. “Come on: the sooner we debrief, the sooner we can see those clowns out of here.”
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