"What a fantastic view!"
"You're tellin' me!"
"The trip over here was terrible!"
"OK boys! We're a few miles out before we hit radio silence."
"Yes, madre Dasher! Your wish is my every command!"
Crusing three miles above the frozen sun-glistened landscape of the Arctic Circle, four jet fighters were patroling the air space of the newly developed North American Alliance. The Alliance brought the three countries of Canada, United States, and Mexico together as a single entity. There was heavy conspiracy to what brought this trio together. Financial support? Military consolidation? Or, were they headed to the same destation as the European Union--the forming of a One World Government?
"Everyone check-in," a voice came over the system from AWACS.
"Badger here."
"Dasher here."
"Clash here."
A pause.
"Venom? Are you there?" asked AWACS.
"Yah! Venom here. Hey, are you guys getting any bleeps?"
"No. No bogies. That is what you are asking about, right?"
"SHHHHHIIIIII.........."
Silence.
"Venom, respond!"
It came out of no where from an unforeseen launch point. Venom, aka Major John Fowler, flipped his fighter, and pulled a split-s, narrowly missing a collision. Four long range missles headed right for the Wing! The four fighters--all F-18E Hornets--broke formation and dove toward the deck of the iceberg riddled Arctic Ocean. Their after-burners creating sick and twisted clouds as they turned, burned, and chafed trying to desperately out-run the highly mobile missles.
"Arrows! They're Arrows!" yelled Venom. "Everyone dive toward the ocean and splash those sons-of-bitches!" The four headed down like boulders in a land-slide, breaking left, breaking right, pulling negative g-dives, split-s's. It was a mass-like confusion trying to get to sea level, that no one saw the aggressors appear.
Finally. Each pilot successfully lost their assailants, and fell back into formation. "Where in the hell did those Arrows come from, Golden Eye?!" demanded Venom.
"We have five bogies on radar, but the signal is faint. A stealth aircraft of type," responded Golden Eye.
"Talley-ho on the enemy!" shrieked Dasher. "They're.....they're...."
"Crap! Russian Berkuts!" responded Badger. "No wonder our radar didn't pick them up!"
"Four to five. Not good odds," stated Venom. "Golden Eye, can we scramble air support?"
"It has been already requested," stated Golden Eye. "They will be here in 15 minutes."
"15 minutes! We'll be killed or splashed in seconds!" exclaimed Clash. "Let's kill them! They already shot at us!"
"Hold on Clash," Venom said. "Golden Eye, I'm going to open frequency and try to communicate."
"Roger."
Major Fowler switched his radio to an unsecured channel. "Russian fighters, acknowledge."
Nothing.
"We are the 150th Fighter Wing of the NAA. Acknowledge."
Still nothing.
"You are in our air space. You are ordered to turn around and return to your country. We will use deadly force!" The Su-47's turned around, in formation. "Whew!" thought the Major. "Just keep on edge!"
"What are they do-.....What the hell!" yelled Badger. All five of the Berkuts appeared to have smoke come from them. All four of the 150th's HUD's turned red and their missle warning systems went off. The Russian-made fighters locked-on and fired short range missles from their six o'clock!
"Break off and climb!" ordered Venom. "Let's out run them!" After burners. Speed. Altitude. A flash of light. It was a couple of minutes before sensors returned to normal. "I can't see everyone. Roll call! Venom here!"
"Dasher here!"
"Clash here!"
Silence.
"Badger?" called the Major. "Respond!"
Silence.
"BADGER? Respond now like your life depends on it!" ordered the Major.
"Golden Eye here. Badger's not on scope. His transponder is not responding either."
"Everyone, look for a chute!"
"Orders have just come in that you are to return to base ASAP."
"Badger first!"
"Negative, Venom. The orders are clear. Return to base!"
********************************************************************************
It was pouring rain the whole previous week. A huge warm front had moved in from Hawaii, toward the Pacific Northwest, cheerfully raising the temperature during the bitter cold autumn, that hit like a ton of bricks.
"Finally! The Pineapple Express delivers!" said First Lieutenant William "Badger" Bristow in a distinctive British voice.
"If that is what you want to call it!" responded Captain Sarah "Dasher" Garnier. "It is warmer, but it doesn't remind me in any way of pineapples!"
Mr. Bristow, 26, was born in England, but grew up in British Columbia due to a job offer by the Royal Canadian Air Force for his father. His dad, still alive, was a highly decorated pilot for the British RAF. He flew missions in Iraq, Iran, and support sorties for South Korea, and Japan. His most memorable moment was a "first strike, first kill" he did on a Russian Borei-class ballistic submarine that North Korea had sent into Japanese waters. It surfaced, after it had deployed a medium range missle to hit Tokyo. Captain Jonathan "Runner" Bristow saw the ship, received confirmation of an enemy sub, got permission to attack, flipped an split-s from formation, and launched a LASM from his Typhoon. Direct hit! The sub looked like an underwater explosive when the missle hit.
Willie, as his friends called him, looked up to his father. It was his dream to be a great fighter pilot. He joined the ROTC in high school, went to boot camp after graduation, and headed for flight school. When he graduated, he was deployed to Iran as a part of a peace keeping effort from the UN. Back then he flew a Tornado. It wasn't as cool as his dad's Typhoon, but was far more accomplished in the rugged terrain of Iran. His country called him home to join the forces of a soon-to-be new political joint force. The NAA. When he retured home, he was trained to handle the Hornet--the F-18E. Now this was cool! The plane ran literal circles around his old Tornado!
"Speaking of pineapples, I am starving," stated Badger. "There's a pizza parlor just a few clicks from here."
"But why leave the dry interior to the wet outside?" asked Dasher. "Let's just call and order. I would hate to miss a meeting with the two other pilots we're suppose to train with."
"You're wish is my every command, madre Dasher!" Badger said smuggly.
Coming up from a totally different non-military lifestyle, Ms.Garnier, 30, was a very-to-the-point red-head. She was six foot and carried her athelitic looks very well--since junior high! She knew what it was to be a true leader. Her mother was the coach for both the junior high and high school varsity basketball teams. Her height was definetly from her father, though. Not knowing what she wanted to do after high school, and being a native British Columbian from Vancouver, she signed up as a cadet for the RCAF. It seemed to be a cool thing. She had been to air shows and dug the fighter jet scene. After flight school, she flew no-fly-zone sorties over North Korea. She lived and breathed the Hornet. When her deployment was over in Korea, she was awarded the rank as Captain. She led nuggets into dangerous territory and got all them home safely time and time again.
"When are those pilots going to get here!" thought Dasher as she looked out over the new air base from the main office building in Vancouver, B.C. "So scerene. So cool." The lights from the air field looked like jewels reflecting from the wet tarmac. "The weather couldn't be more terrible for training!"
"Captain Garnier?" asked an unfamiliar voice. She turned around to see two men in American uniforms escorted by a cadet.
"Hmmm...I hate meeting new people. But hey, they are pilots," she thought. "Welcome to Canada. A very wet Canada, that is." She extended her hand to shake theirs.
"These are the two American pilots here for training, Captain," said the cadet.
"Thank-you, cadet." He saluted her and left. "Did you guys just get in?"
"Yah." stated Major John "Venom" Fowler. "I am already missing Texas!" he stated laughing. "So what's goin' on 'round here? Let's see, we are on the Pac side of the continent--a monsoon?"
Dasher laughed. "No. I was told it's called the Pineapple Express."
"Ummmm....where are the pineapples?" sneered First Lietunant Thomas "Clash" McDermit. "I hope they are Hawaiian! I love Hawaii! And I love pineapples!"
"Hey, hey, hey!" shouted Badger. "Do I hear the smart ass voice of Clash?"
"Badger!" Clash dropped his bags and embraced Badger. "Man did I miss you! The Wing was not the same since you left Iran. When my time was up, I defineatly put in a request to transfer back to State-side!"
"I anticipated you guys coming and ordered a couple of Hawaiian-style pizzas. Is that OK with everyone?" asked Badger. Everyone laughted in the spirit of the moment.
The two American pilots, Mr. Fowler, 35, and Mr. McDermit, 27, were joined together by Venom's request. Clash, knew how to "rock" (as he put it) a Hornet. Clash kinda reminded Venom as the "skater-dude" type hyped-up on over caffineated energy drinks. But make no mistake, Clash was an experienced pilot! His F-18C saw a lot of close air support in Iran, keeping missle silohs at bay. Out running SAM's was as close to a carnival ride as he was going to get in Iran! It was Clash's reports from his debriefings and commanders that caught the Major's attention. Clash was a man of detail! When he said something was somewhere, not only was it there, but so was the trees, roads, water ways, etc.
***********************************************************************
For the next five days, the team of four was "schooled". They flew against each other, in alternating pairs, and against some of the best as a combined wing. Yes, the weather was not optimum for combat manuvuers, but it made them more confident of their skills as pilots. That weekend, they got their orders.
"You four will be heading to a new air strip we just built in Churchill, Manitoba. It will be cold, but the weather is looking bright and beautiful for a couple of days," said Major General George Winston. "It will be a routine patorling mission for our Northern air space."
"If my memory serves me correct, won't it be like 12 hour missions?" asked Dasher. "I mean, our fighters aren't meant to be fuel effecient."
"We've worked out a logistics plan with Greenland. Godthab will launch tankers. So, no worries there. Everything has been thought of for this mission and missions to come."
"Thank you Sir!" they said in unison.
"You will be leaving tomorrow. There will be a C-130 leaving with supplies for Manitoba, so make sure your things get on there, otherwise you will be up the provibial creek without a paddle."
"Yes, Sir!"
"And one more thing. The Major General there....he is a good man, and a fantastic pilot. We flew together during Desert Storm in Iraq in the 1990's. He is the best, and demands it too. Show him what you've got. And give the old man my regards."
"Yes, Sir!" they said for the final time as they saluted the Major General.
"Dismissed!"
As they were walking down the hall from the Major General's office, the four pilots' thougths were everywhere.
"Damn! I AM missing Texas!--A LOT!" exclaimed Venom. "From 80 degree weather, to sub 50's, and now probably something in the 30's?! I'm a Texan! We don't do cold! What's your take on this Clash?"
"I'm missin' Texas, too, sir," responded Clash. "It's gonna suck!"
"So what is a Canadians' version of 'bright and beautiful'?" sneered Venom.
Dasher and Badger laughed.
"Well, if there is going to be anything that will be catching rays, it's going to be seals and polar bears, and not scantly-clad women!" A wicked smile came over Dasher's face.
***********************************************************************
"Hey guys, I want you to meet some friends of mine!" shouted Sarah over the loud techno-electronica music, later that night. Tommy and John stood at the very corner of a bar's counter and brick wall holding beers, looking and feeling like high school boys at a dance with no dates--true wall flowers. Sarah and Willie was with a group at a table, laughing.
Willie got up and went over to the "boys". "Come on over. It's plain good fun. We are all with the RCAF. And hey! There are some real 'combat-ready' ladies over there, if you know what I mean!" he sneered as he elbowed Tommy. He waved over Sarah.
That was a sight to behold! "Damn! Female pilots shouldn't look this hot!" thought John. Being of an athletic build, and six foot, Sarah looked like a catalog model! Wearing dark "destroyed" hip huggers, a white bikini-strapped shirt that exposed her mid-section, open-toed heels, and a hair/make-up job that could only be made in Hollywood, Tommy and John's eyes about dried out, daring not to blink, in case they missed her every move.
"Ummm....Dash....I mean Sarah, you look hot!" exclaimed Tommy! John elbowed Tommy, glaring at him.
"Thanks. I guess that's what you guys get when you drag your feet getting ready," said Sarah.
"What do you mean by that?!" questioned John. "We were ready. We just had to get a taxi."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "Nine o'clock means nine o'clock. Anyways. I've got some friends I want you to meet." In a flirty-type of way, Sarah grabbed both Tommy and John's hands--making sure not to lose their eye contact--and led them to her table walking backwards with Willie as the guide through the crowd of people. Still facing the boys, she said, "Guys, meet my Wing." Everyone raised their beers and shot glasses.
As Sarah and Willie sat back down, John and Tommy felt like criminals in interrigation. Everyone stared at them. They stared back.
"Ahemm...I'm John and this is Tommy," stated John as he cleared his throat embarassingly. "We are Americans, flying wing with Sarah and Willie." Everyone just continued to stare. "Do they understand English?" he thought. A girl stood up and made her way to him. She was a little shorter than Sarah, but...."again, damn! Sarah you are runner-up tonight!" Another girl made her way to Tommy. The pairs lost themselves into the crowd, looking to dance the night away. It wasn't long before Sarah and Willie had blended into the music-driven laser show with their partners.
***********************************************************************
Pound. Pound. Pound. "Major! Rise and shine!"
"What the hell! What time is it?!" Venom slowly sat up, rubbing his head. A damn headache. "What happened? I don't remember getting back to base," he thought. He placed his face into his dished hands and tried to remember. "A beer, Sarah--yah, Sarah (he smiled), a blonde--a dancing body, another beer, a shot, more dancing, blank...."
"It is four a.m."
"Four!"
"Yes sir."
"I'm up! Get lost!" He jumped up and ran toward his door, swinging it open. "Cadet."
"Yes sir."
"Tell the others."
"They are already up."
"Already up?"
"Yes sir. They are in the Mess already."
He closed his door and leaned against it, still rubbing his forehead. "Better get goin' you party animal." In twenty minutes, he made his way to the Mess.
"GOOOD MORRNING MAJOR!" his Wing exclaimed, standing at attention, saluting him as he entered the Mess Hall. The room was filled with all the personal that was related to that day's mission--staring at him.
"As you were," commanded Venom as he took a seat next to his comrades. "Does anyone have anything for a headache!"
The base's doctor came forward with some medication. "Take this after eating. In about 20 minutes you'll forgot you even had a headache, and looking to eat up the skies!"
"Thanks, doc."
"Good morning, Major Fowler," said Major General Winston.
"Good morning, Major General," as Venom began to stand up.
"As you were. Everything is set for you to leave. You just need to sign-out your planes--you know the usual stuff."
"Everthing, Major General?"
"Yes. Airman have already packed up your quarters, fueled and armed your fighters. Just do the paper work, and you are ready to go."
"Awesome! So what is the plan?"
The Major General handed Venom a folder. "You and your Wing will fly escort with the C-130. It will be a boring flight, guaranteed. There will be a mid in-air refule. You leave in one hour. Read the folder and brief your Wing. Have a nice flight!"
