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>>1324805

Combat operations. Lots of combat operations. Chatter from the Norwegians and your patrols around the island had been somewhat informative, along with the delivery of an absolute fuckton of ammo and fuel, way more than you’d expect for a single flight of TSF’s out in the middle of nowhere. You noticed launch time was just fifteen minutes out, the little alarm on your watch sounding off. It was just another patrol, but hell if you were going to be late. Walking through the facility, you dropped your mug off at the mess, and after suiting up strolled into the heated hangars - not that they were much warmer than what was outside right now. Climbing into your own TSF, you ran through the preflight checklist, cycling through a variety of systems and ensuring the man-machine interface was functioning properly. A single error could be fatal, especially in transit, a crash into the near freezing Arctic waters likely to be as lethal as a Grappler getting a solid grip on your TSF.

After making the final adjustments and tests, you followed the rest of the flight heading onto the launch tarmac after the flight. Time to be Tail-End Charlie once again - last in the formation. The traffic controller waved off each of you in turn.

“Raider-1, cleared for take off. Raider-2, cleared for takeoff. Raider-3, cleared for takeoff. Raider-4, cleared for take off.”
In turn the engines of each one of the flight’s F-16D’s roared to full power, catapulting your TSF’s off the ground at high speed one by one, the cloudy skies beckoning as you followed your wingman, turning north-east in the usual patrol pattern. He chimes in over your radio as you climb to altitude, his smiling face filling the lower corner of your screen.

“Hey Smith, you hear about Lyons?”

[ ] “BBC said NATO was pushing for it hard - and are almost there too. Why’re you asking?”

[ ] “Looks like a meat grinder in the making.”

[ ] “Get off the radio Cross, I’m trying to fly here.”

>>1324810
>[ ] “BBC said NATO was pushing for it hard - and are almost there too. Why’re you asking?”

>>1324810
>[ ] “Get off the radio Cross, I’m trying to fly here.”

>>1324810
>[x] “Looks like a meat grinder in the making.”

>>1324857
>>1324859
>>1324880
Split right down the middle. Alright, writing up a response.

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>[X] “BBC said NATO was pushing for it hard - and are almost there too. Why’re you asking?”
>[X] “Looks like a meat grinder in the making.”
>[X] “Get off the radio Cross, I’m trying to fly here.”


Adjusting the trim on your TSF to stabilize yourself a little more, you offhandedly reply to Cross, keeping his TSF in view as you level out. “Yeah, I caught a bit of talk about it on the BBC while getting a cup of coffee,” you reply. “Assaulting that thing’s going to be a meatgrinder. Anyway, keep off the radio. Bossman’s not going to be happy you’re making chitchat when you should stick to his ass.”

You kill Crosses feed before he can reply, bringing up a map of what your patrol route would be despite having flown it almost a dozen times since you’d arrived. The pattern was simple, dancing just in and out of Laser range on the Norwegian coast, collecting intelligence for the rest of the forces in Europe and trying to locate a weak spot in the Laser network through observation and baiting movement of BETA forces the best you could. Despite the danger it was a rather boring task most of the time, amounting to a lot of empty mountainsides and the occasional close call, like last week, when Gomez nearly got fried when he stayed a little too long in that danger zone. The flashburns on his F-16’s leg were still there, the laser missing his TSF by probably less than an inch. At least you didn’t have to dash into there for long, a small mercy, just long enough to try and bait a possible shot and let the recon pods do their work.

As you approached the Norwegian coasts, the threat bubbles on the map got thicker and thicker, the line between life and death razor thin as the flight dived for the deck, gaining airspeed to better execute the crazy zig zag into the killzone around Trondheim, unable to shoot back at the small, mobile Laser class BETA at this extreme range. And you, as Tail End Charlie, were going to be in the crosshairs the longest if things went sour. No pressure. The first pair of Falcons, Boss Man and Gomez hit the afterburners and dashed over the line, sporadic laser fire attempting to catch them as they pressed against the edges of the range of the Lasers, once in awhile a Heavy Laser attempting to nab them from the horizon line.

Then it was your turn, as you followed Cross across the line of death in the first dash of the patrol.

Redlining the powerful Pratt & Whitney engines as you struggled to extract every little bit of speed you could get in Afterburner, your Falcon danced less than a meter above the water, the laser warning klaxon blaring in your ears. The recon pods where your spare assault cannons would be if this was a combat run were capturing every bit of imagery - including something you couldn’t quite make out further down the coast.

[ ] Risk more Laser fire, every second of footage is precious
[ ] Follow Cross’ lead

>>1325047
>[ ] Follow Cross’ lead

>>1325047
>[ ] Follow Cross’ lead

>>1325047
>[x] Follow Cross’ lead

BETA are damned ugly motherfuckers alright

>>1325085
>>1325088
>>1325103
Writing a reply right now, thanks for your patience.

raptor-chan pls, you need to pm me on IRC and not msg me on discord when this kicks off :(

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>[X] Follow Cross’ lead

Twelve seconds between Laser shots, three times that for the Heavy’s. Half of this strategy relied on baiting the Lasers into firing at what were effectively unhittable targets, just out of their range. Every missed shot bought a few seconds to your two man team as you could hear the ozone crack from a closer call than most just off your nose. Still, you stuck to Cross like glue, waiting for him to make the first move to pull out of the observation run. Traveling at two times the speed of sound, what you’d seen before in the distance was close enough to catch a better look of faster than you’d expected, turning out to be simply the entrance to one of the larger fjords along the coast getting scanned by your specialized recon pods for a few seconds before you and Cross started the dash back out of the kill zone, still stressing everything to the absolute maximum you could with having to ditch your external stores. Cross rolled back and out and you followed, a mixture of relief and satisfaction as the first dash ended and you throttled down - then you went blind for a few seconds as one last shot went just in front of the recon pods you were viewing through, the sensitive cameras whiting out from the heat and sheer brilliance of the laser.

Instinctively you pulled up, rolling as fast as you could towards the west, laser warning noises still chiming, and more Laser class attempting to hit you once again as you got into their view. You were still alive, that was at least certain, but as you tried to locate Cross once again, a new warning chime started up in your ear. Radar lock.

“Raider-4, music on,” you said, flipping on your ECM suite, and dumping some chaff in case a missile was now on your ass as you desperately tried to locate whatever the hell had painted you, your own radar unit kicking into action. Several miles ahead of you Gomez and Bossman’s IFF’s pinged off as you scanned the horizon for Cross - locating him just to your west, hurtling as fast as he could and zig zagging the entire time. Electronic jamming started to shut down your radar as you moved to follow him, trying to find whatever it was that had you in its sights. Some DDG that had been spooked by you popping up on his Radar maybe? No, there missile warnings yet, but the jamming was good, hellishly good. Other TSFs, it had to be, but who?

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>>1325329
Bossman and Gomez dropped from your sensors as you turned sharply to follow Cross, radio static all you were getting at the moment from both them and your wingman as you danced above the waves of the North Sea, putting distance between you and the laser network as fast as you could. Your armament was minimal, a single cut down assault cannon clutched in one of your Falcon’s hands and a knife stored in your knee compartments. It had saved weight and cut down on drag, but right now you felt awfully under armed against whatever was trying to hunt you and your flight down.

And wherever they were too, hiding somewhere in this electronic haze and cloudy grey sky.

[ ] Regroup with Bossman and Gomez, strength in numbers
[ ] Cross could be in trouble alone, chase after your wingman

>>1325339
>[ ] Cross could be in trouble alone, chase after your wingman

>>1325316
Sorry man, I don't hang on the IRC that often, I'll try and get back on it soon.

>>1325356
Twitter is fine too.

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>>1325358
I'm a bit rusty. Please no bully.

>>1325339
>[x] Cross could be in trouble alone, chase after your wingman

>>1325370
But RC, QMs exist to be bullied!
Except for Kota. He exists for pets

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>>1325370
But Katia was made for bullying.

>>1325350
>>1325371
Writing up right now.

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>[x] Cross could be in trouble alone, chase after your wingman

“Motherfucker…” you swear just to yourself, hitting afterburner and watching your fuel levels go down even faster - you still had more than enough for a few minutes of this but you would need to ditch your pods sooner or later if this kept up, and getting your ass chewed out by Bossman over that was not on your schedule for today. Popping up to gain more altitude for a brief window of time flickering ghosts appeared on your HUD, IFFs certainly not broadcasting over US frequencies, as electronic interference once again blinded your long range eyes.

Even rather close to Cross, you couldn’t shake the electronic interference, nor the slight hum in your ears of the radar lock, whatever was tracking you keeping you firmly located. Catching a glint out of the corner of your eyes you killed the throttle as at high speeds another TSF came out of the grey sky from your Five-O’Clock, flying straight through the gap between you and Cross. Immediately Cross started weaving, dumping chaff and turning away from the contact as you oriented yourself to meet the threat. A burst of assault cannon rounds flew over your head as whoever was intercepting you obviously had decided you needed to spend some time in the drink.

Twisting your TSF around and trying to train your assault cannon on whatever was shooting at you, you catch the markings of a red star and a distinctive paint scheme. Soviet naval aviation, a pair of them, and obviously not playing around, judging by the saw being deployed as he barrels down on you. Your merge is incoming, and it looks like your first combat action will be not against the BETA but some pissed off Soviet pilots.

[ ] Open up, dump the mag into him
[ ] Ditch recon pods, you need to get the fucking hell out of here

>>1325590
>[ ] Open up, dump the mag into him

>>1325590
>[ ] Open up, dump the mag into him

>>1325590
>[ ] Open up, dump the mag into him

>>1325634
>>1325639
>>1325661
Writing then.

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>[X] Open up, dump the mag into him

It’s reflex really, especially when out of the corner of your mind you can rationalize what you’re about to do. He shot first. And he made the mistake of not trying to take you out with a second burst. Shouldering the cut down AMWS-21, you open fire at full auto as you put all thrusters in full reverse to try and gain some space. Letting him get close to you with those saws was asking for trouble. Your targeting systems are being interfered with by the jamming coming from either him or somewhere else, and no matter how hard you try, you’re having trouble getting a lock automatically, rounds dancing around the Soviet TSF as he accelerates, eager to close the short gap and rip you apart in close quarters. Killing the attempted lock, you shift it into a manual override, the laser sight targeting letting you plant a few rounds just below the cockpit before he’s at practically point blank range, the roaring whine of the blade motor audible in your cockpit, as he keeps closing, faster than you. There’s no room to run, as you keep spraying 36mm rounds in his direction as he tries to evade your fire.

You haven’t hit anything vital, that’s for fucking sure, the blade motor coming in an inch of your TSF as you barely are able to maneuver out of the way. Then there’s the really dreaded sound - a dry magazine, having blown through the reduced size of the magazine in less than a minute. Cross isn’t anywhere nearby, and Bossman and Gomez are nowhere to be seen right now. You hit your afterburners to climb as fast as you can, recon pods scanning wildly for the other contact, noticing him still coming in hard and hot - but right now you’re behind the first Soviet.

[ ] Reload, go for the kill on the first bandit
[ ] Knife now, it’s faster than reloading
[ ] Make a run for it

>>1325885
>[ ] Knife now, it’s faster than reloading
Let's see if he knows how to play Knifey Spoony.

>>1325885
>[ ] Knife now, it’s faster than reloading

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>>1325885
[ ] Knife now, it’s faster than reloading

>>1325885
>[ ] Knife now, it’s faster than reloading

>>1325907
>>1325913
>>1325930
>>1325954
Pretty unanimous. Writing it up.

[X] Knife now, it’s faster than reloading

It’s unconventional but you don’t have time. You need this motherfucker dead fast and now, no questions asked.

The hilt of your primary close combat dagger pops out of the knee compartment, a simple and inelegant hunk of sharpened metal meant to carve through BETA in a last ditch fight. Grabbing it with your free hand you dive down to regain energy and get as much momentum as possible. As the first Su-33 tries to turn in and close once again, you pounce. Burying the close combat knife in one of his arm joints, the two of you tumble in the air heading towards the ocean a kilometer below as you start to saw the limb off, heat from his jump units burning off the paint on your Falcon’s leg armor. Finally, with a tug, you separate one of the Soviet TSF’s arms from it’s body, letting it fall free as you try and reach around and bury the knife in his cockpit, dropping your rifle in an effort to keep a grip. The blade motor carves off a chunk of your TSF’s head, missing the sensors thankfully, as the struggling Soviet tries to escape.He finds no such luck, as you slide the blade into the middle of his TSF from behind, twisting it and severing the controls to his jump units, pulling the dagger free and letting him tumble into the ocean as you right yourself with very little time to spare. Maybe he’ll survive the impact, but now the other Flanker was closing in, both assault cannons blazing as he dived down towards your position on the deck.

Dodging 36mm shells the best you can, your Falcon practically dances on and skims the waves, dashing north and trying to regain airspeed after that tumble. But this guy might just be able to punch your ticket if you’re not careful as he also closes in for either a close quarters gun run or a repeat of the attempt to slice you to pieces the previous Flanker tried.

[ ] He wants to try and catch you? Evasive maneuvers, lets Turn and Burn
[ ] Cut power, see if you can get him to overshoot
[ ] Turn and climb, close the gap

>>1326068
>[ ] Cut power, see if you can get him to overshoot

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>>1325047
Are you going to include the SF strains, cause there's some pretty crazy shit there.

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>>1326068

[ ] He wants to try and catch you? Evasive maneuvers, lets Turn and Burn

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>>1326081

>>1326068
>[ ] He wants to try and catch you? Evasive maneuvers, lets Turn and Burn

>>1326068
>[ ] Cut power, see if you can get him to overshoot

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>>1326080
>>1326090
Jesus Christ how horrifying

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>>1326101
Yeah, its apparently capable of leaping like a flea too.

Here's another of their mega strains.

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>>1326116
This one is supposed to be an artillery piece, called the Trebuchet Class. Its meant for long range combat, but isn't a slouch when cornered either.

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>>1326116
>>1326123
I'll keep it under consideration.

>>1326080
>>1326083
>>1326094
>>1326098
Tie. Writing up now.

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You jink and evade the first few long bursts but his fire gets more accurate as he closes in on you at high speed. Something in this situation needs to close - there’s no guarantee you can trust your opponent to fuck up again, and now he’s certainly trying to kill you. You need to do something, and fast. A crazy idea hits your mind - you’re easily far more maneuverable than he is at close quarters, even if he is purpose built for that kind of combat. All you have is a knife, and every problem thus needs to be stabbed, if you can slow down enough to get onto his six. You cut the throttle hard, letting him close in as fast as possible, but things start to go wrong fast. The first burst as he closes misses but the second certainly doesn’t - and you’re lucky you aren’t a fireball as your fuel tanks start leaking after that impact, the self-sealing nature of them helping mitigate the loss of vital fuel, but that’s not going to last forever.

As you spin and twist from the impact, he closes in to finish you, a 120mm shell ripping off one of your arms as you barely dodge the shells meant to finish you off for good, and a blade motor is coming right for your cockpit. Barely in time you manage to bring the dagger around to parry the blow, sending you nearly spinning into the Arctic Ocean as 36mm gunfire shreds open one of your legs as he tries to fire with his open arm, more fuel spilling into the water close to you. Spinning backwards to keep in control you snap your remaining arm out with the knife, a last ditch attempt to fight back before you die. Momentum saves you in one way, and probably dooms you in another, the maneuver managing to land your knife right in the back of the Flanker, penetrating the cockpit from behind - and the waves hit the both of you as the power to his unit is cut, sending you tumbling into the water.

It’s hard to breath, sinking into the deep, a lightheaded feeling from the impact. You just have enough time to jettison the cockpit from the rest of your Falcon as you black out.

QUEST OVER, EVERYONE GO HOME

>>1326287
Hush. let me get the second bit written up.

>>1326294
just trollin' a little, all part of the /k/ripple experience.

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When you wake up, you’re in a dark room, naked. Everything hurts. Everything hurts terribly. You try to move, but your arms and legs can’t move. Looking down you see the glint of metal cuffs around your ankles, and the same is probably around your wrists, keeping you attached to this chair. Suddenly a bright light blinds you, as a female voice with a thick Russian accent addresses you.

“Hello Second Lieutenant Smith. I have a few questions for you.”

As your vision clears a little, a scarred KGB officer - you assume she's KGB considering the hat and the fact you’re currently tied to a metal chair instead of in a hospital bed and also naked and jesus how hard did you hit your head anyway?

[ ] Say nothing
[ ] “I could say the same.”
[ ] “Smith, John, service number….”

>>1326328
>[ ] “Smith, John, service number….”

>>1326328
>[ ] “Smith, John, service number….”

>>1326328
>[ ] “Smith, John, service number….”
It's not Anje ;_;

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>>1326328

[ ] “Smith, John, service number….”

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“Smith, John, service number…” you mumble out, before all of a sudden someone knocks the chair to the ground, a cloth being thrown over your head, and then cold, cold water being dumped on you, salty and choking. You can’t breathe, you’re drowning. Then it stops for a few seconds. A vital breath of fresh air gets to you, and then it happens again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And Again. And again. And again. And again. Then you lose track of the number. But it keeps happening. When it finally stops, you can barely breathe, shivering and cold, still on the ground, with the agent staring down at you as you once again try to say the only thing you need to say - “Smith, John, service number…” - but it comes out as a pained gurgle, the taste of saltwater on your lips and tongue.

The KGB agent taps the edge of your head with her boot. “That was a good talk. I hope you’ve learned something.” She speaks in russian to whoever else is with you in the room, and your chair is lifted back up, and then the world goes black as something is once again pulled over your head.

The same thing happens what you assume to be the next day. Still, all you say is that simple phrase. Someone will get you out of this hell, someone has to know you’re still alive, you have to keep hoping…

>>1326513
Another day. Another two days after that. Three more days. You think they’re days, time blurring together over the various torture sessions, as the questions keep coming.

She’s eating something in front of you, something different than the gruel you get served in this cell. Mashed potatoes, some kind of sauce, and what looks like real meat. You have clothes now, you don’t remember when they gave you them.

“So Smith, why were you spying on the Kiev? Why were you equipped with spy gear on your TSF? Surely you Americans aren’t stupid enough to try to attack our carrier so soon after harassing one of our submarines so blatantly.”

You don’t reply, just watching her eat, knowing that if you make a move the large man behind you will use his blackjack on your head again.

“Why did you kill two pilots who simply came to warn you?”

You don’t answer. You can tell she’s getting frustrated with you, and this is the only real way you can fight back.

“Well?” she demands.

This time you answer. You know it’ll hurt, it’ll be terrible, but you can’t resist twisting the only weapon you have.

“Because I am Smith, John, service number…”

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>>1326522
You lose your fingernails and toenails for this. But the look of anger on her face is priceless. When she asks if you’re sorry about being so stubborn, you just tell her once again, your name and service number. They beat you nearly to death after this.

The day after this, you’re handcuffed, and a bag is tied over your head. You can hear the ocean, and helicopters. You’re forced to walk, and then dragged somewhere else. The helicopter takes off, and finally the bag is pulled off your head.

“Name?” The man in the suit asks. He’s got a New York accent, something so fucking american there was no way in hell he could be anything but.

You just laugh and say. “John Smith.”

Then you start to cry, because you’re safe.

You had to spend three weeks in a hospital stateside. As you recover, the man in the suit, Agent Rhodes, visits you, asking you a variety of questions, and answering yours. The rest of the flight made it out. The two Soviet pilots didn’t survive, one unable to eject, and the other presumably killed when you’d penetrated the cockpit. As soon as you’re discharged, Rhodes gives you a call.

“Smith. After what you’ve been through and considering what you did, well, I’ve got a couple of options for you if you’re interested.”

[ ] “Not interested. I just want to go back to my old unit.”
[ ] “I’m interested.”
[ ] Write in

>>1326591
>[ ] “I’m interested.”

>>1326591
>[ ] “I’m interested.”
Let's see where this rabbit hole goes.

>>1326591
>[X] “I’m interested.”

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>>1326591
[ ] “I’m interested.”

>>1326591
>[ ] “I’m interested.” [ ] Write in

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“I’m interested.” You shuffle the hotel room phone over so you can lay down on the bed, the feeling of an actual soft thing against your skin like fucking heaven. Mother of fuck, you’d had a hell of a time the last few months. “Hit me with it.”

There was a chuckle from the other end of the line. “I knew you’d agree. Can’t keep a good man down. Go to Cooper’s Installation on Aspen street, you’ll know the building when you see it. Ask for me there. Be there by 11 o’Clock, sharp.” Rhodes hangs up after that, leaving you to ponder just what the fuck you’d decided to get involved with. But hey, no looking back now.

The Cooper building turns out to be a bit of an older 50’s era warehouse style thing, almost out of place in Baltimore, at least this area of it. Walking inside, you see no evidence that this could be some kind of super secret spy bullshit, at least on the surface. Sure, it’s ugly as hell and the art on the walls is tacky, but it doesn’t really scream “HELLO I AM OWNED BY THE CIA”. Kind of disappointing really. Maybe spies just have horrible sense in interior decoration.
The chipper young secretary looks at you as you walk to the reception desk, smiling. “Do you have an appointment Sir?” she asks, pretty much oozing pep and a go get’em attitude that really made you want to hurl almost.

“Uh,” you reply, “Tell Mr. Rhodes that Mr. Smith is here, he’s expecting me.”

“One moment then!” she cheerily replies, tapping her headset and speaking softly into it, smiling at you all the while. Finally she nods. “Alright, Mr. Smith, Mr. Rhodes should be waiting in room 308. Elevators and stairs are located to your left. Have a nice day!”

Taking the stairs up, you find the room within a few minutes, Agent Rhodes already waiting, a stack of files in front of him. You take a seat opposite of him at the conference table. He doesn’t say anything right away, instead shoving six separate manila folders across the table to you.

“So, Mr. Smith, what do you know about the Alternative plans?”

>>1326721
Holy fuck I dropped my trip for most of this. But with that I'll call it a night here, having run for a good amount of time. It's a good cliffhanger. Hopefully I'll remember both my trip and to use my twitter - https://twitter.com/Raptor_Chan - to announce when I'll run again. I have to say I didn't quite expect what happened to happen.

Don't forget to archive it.

>>1326750
cheers for the thread OP!