Aces of World War III

[Tortilla the Hun]

Roman was running an extended training flight with his F-22A in New Mexican airspace when he recieved an emergency broadcast from Holloman Air Force Base. "All fighters, all fighters. Advise you clear Holloman immediately. Emergency evacuation procedures in place, we are in DEFCON 1. Repeat, we are-"

The broadcast cut to static then went completely silent shortly after, though that wasn't what troubled Roman the most. What was the most troubling for him was the bright flash coming from the broadcast's origin as well as several others in the far distance. A cold chill went down his spine and despite his best efforts, he couldn't shake off the unsettling feeling; the world as he knew it was ending before his eyes and at that moment he was helpless to do anything but watch. The jet was trailing northeast with little intention of going anywhere else, for the pilot's focus was lost in the nuclear flashes.

Suddenly another broadcast came through and broke Roman's focus, one informing him of a military base in the Canadian Rockies. With a quick look at his fuel gauge, confirming he had just enough fuel to get there, he set the coordinates on his GPS and adjusted his flight path accordingly. The bright flashes seemed to be on all along the horizion and he wondered just how many bombs there were. Uneasy and, for the first time in his life, mortified, he pushed onward, north by northwest. Some comfort was to be had when he found a bit of humor from a piece of dialogue from the Hitchcock movie that his subconscious deemed appropriate for the situation at hand...

"Where are we goin'?"

"Airport."

"For what?"

"Orders."

 

[Malyc]

"I'm Major Gabriel Watson. United States Army. Commanding Officer and Caretaker of Shelter Base. Who the hell are you?"

"Lt. Willow O'donnell, callsign "Banshee", 493d squadron, United States Air Force." She responded, damn near exhausted from her extended flight. Now what? She thought. WWIII just started, and they've already got us against the ropes. Gonna be tough to come back from this one...

"Major," Banshee started. " What's our next move?"

 

[Redryhno]

"Captain Nickolai Gavrilov, sir, USAF." Nick struck a salute, but couldn't hold onto it for very long before the questions inside began clawing their way out.

"Sir, have we heard anything from England yet? Or who exactly is responsible for this?"

More desperation than he believed had crept into his voice, especially on the first question, but he had to know.

 

[Athol]

She was numb. In the past hour since the attack Sam had made her way south almost entirely without thinking about it, her training flying the plane while her mind tried desperately to cope with it all. They're dead, they're all fucking DEAD! Bitter thoughts swarmed through her mind like a cloud of angry wasps, chipping away at her control, and threatening to break her.

"C'mon keep it together." She said to herself repeatedly, just trying to maintain control till she got down. Fifteen minutes later she was wheels down on the tarmac at the base, and being led inside a massive camouflaged hanger. Getting out of her Typhoon, Sam was greeted by a USAF flight sergeant telling her where to go.

Nodding her head, but not really hearing the man, Sam got about twenty paces before falling to her knees. Now if this was Hollywood, she'd break down in tears sobbing like a small child and only the handsome male lead would be able to calm her...but this was real life. Instead of tears it was a scream of pure hatred and rage. Tearing the flight helmet from her head she threw it as hard as she could; before she could do much more she found herself hoisted off the ground, with two large arms across her chest pinning her own arms to her sides.

"Relax ma'am." A voice said, but she didn't hear, thrashing against the restraints. "Ma'am please clam down." The voice repeated to little effect, and finally "CAPITAN CALM THE FUCK DOWN NOW!" That worked. Going limp, Sam took a deep breath and tried to slow her racing heart. "You can let go now...I'll behave." She said. As she was released she turned to see who'd grabbed her, finding the F/Sergeant who'd greeted her. "I'm sorry 'bout that ma'am, but I didn't want you hurting yourself. We need everyone we've got." He said. "That's quite alright Sergeant...Dupree. I think I needed that." With that Sgt. Dupree nodded and jogged back to the flight line, while Sam made her way towards the base's C.O.

"I'm Major Gabriel Watson. United States Army. Commanding Officer and Caretaker of Shelter Base. Who the hell are you?"

Sam snapped to attention, and saluted. "Capitan Samantha Hickok. 19 Wing Comox, 411 Tactical Fighter Squadron, RCAF Sir."

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

As Roman approached the well-hidden air base in his Raptor, he radioed in a bit hesitantly. "Control, this is a USAF pilot requesting clearance for landing."

There was a moment of silence before a voice came through the comms, confirming that he was clear to land. Roman brought in the F-22A as directed and took note of dozens of other crew members as well as civilians grouping in the massive hangar. Quickly, he jumped down from his jet and went to join the others. There was an aged man who stepped out from some hidden lift and seemed frustrated, which came as no surprise to Roman. He introduced himself and sternly requested, rather informally, an introduction of everyone else.

There was no apparant order in which people began calling their names and ranks out, so all he could do was wait for an opportunity. Taking advantage of a slight pause, he spoke up loudly and sternly, "Lieutenant Roman Coronado, Forty-Fourth Flight Group, Three Oh First Fighter Squadron, USAF, sir!"

 

[Mr.Ivebeenframed]

Coup was glad to see other jets trickling in from the aftermath of the attack and the looks on their faces all spelled the same look of disbelief and maybe even restrained anger that came from the attack. Coup hopped out of his jet after he landed and he fathered around what seemed to be the C.O of the base as well. He took time to look around, observing the base and partially hoping that more jets would come but he tried not to be all that optimistic.

Coup came up to the huddled crowd of pilots and saluted the CO as calmly as he could.

"Captain Coup Lackland, Twenty-third Wing, Seventy-fifth Fighter Squadron, USAF." He looked around at his fellow pilots and they all seemed American along with a NATO pilot for the most part.

 

[Grim327]

Chris looked around the hangar, and watched as other pilots landed. He was hoping for more pilots, but he didn't want to get his hopes up too high. He then saw what seemed to be the commanding officer, so he marched over to introduce himself. As he got there a sizable crowd was there. "Sir, Captain Chris Lorens, three sixty-sixth fighter wing, three eighty-ninth fighter squadron," he said with a crisp salute. He then lowered his salute and waited for his turn to start asking questions.

 

[PrinceOfShapeir]

"Our next move...standing orders were to seal the base before the storms start and blow fallout to the four corners of the Earth. Save a seed of Humanity until the Earth is safe again. But there's two problems with that. One is that the situation isn't a full-scale nuclear war, neither side unleashed their full nuclear arsenals. The other problem is that there aren't enough people here. Rough estimates were we need at least two thousand non-related individuals to support enough genetic diversity that we don't die out from inbreeding."

He sighed. "I don't know what to do. Things aren't going as expected. The Russians used some kind of stealth nuke, we didn't even know what was coming until they were only a few minutes from impact. Barely enough time to get our own warheads in the air, and their missile defense systems dealt with most of those. The Joint Chiefs didn't make it out of the Pentagon. From what I can tell, Air Force One was disabled by EMP about two minutes after taking off. Crashed somewhere in Virginia. Altitude went from eight thousand feet to triple x in less than six seconds."

He sighed and rubbed his face. "Let's get these people below. We've got quartering and supplies for them. Spacious, too, given this isn't even five percent of capacity." He pointed towards the elevators, manipulating a control hidden in the wall to open it again. "Come on, no reason to hang around here."

 

[Mr.Ivebeenframed]

"Yes, sir." Coup said calmly. It was hard to get a grasp of the whole situation despite seeing the destruction himself. It seemed as if the perfect invasion had been staged. The President is dead, the military is in utter disarray, and it was only a matter of time until America would be conquered for the very first time. He clenched his fist as he was led to elevator.

Soon he was led to his own quarters which was spartan in its own right. He sat down on the bare bed and simply sighed. Now he was angry. His hand shook with boiling anger reaching to the surface. Silently, he prayed as his father did during the battle of Khe Sanh where they were forced to retreat. His father didn't pray for redemption, forgiveness, or out of solace but more out of a chance to strike back. Coup prayed for the same thing, a chance to render this "perfect invasion" asunder.

Then Coup came to the realization of something profound. He didn't have to pray for a chance as the building blocks of one was already set up. It was just a matter of some rearranging.

 

[Malyc]

"Yes sir." Willow responded, too burned out to do much more than that. The 11 hour flight, combined with the shock of the unexpected nuclear war, the possible loss of her entire squadron, and the apparent deaths of most of the country's leaders, had taken a toll on her.

She followed the private assigned to lead her to her quarters, thanking him once they arrived. As soon as the door closed behind her, Willow sank to the floor and leaned her head against it.

Dear God, please let them have been in the air when Lakenheath was hit... She thought, knowing that with its 3 squadrons, as well as Mildenhall's 6 so close to each other, they'd make too sweet a target to pass up. Willow recalled the few other pilots that she had seen in the hangar. Are we all that's left? How are we going to turn this around with just us?

Willow quickly realized that her mind was all mach, no vector, and resolved to figure out what she was going to do when she woke up the next day.

She was out before her head hit the pillow.

 

[Athol]

After retrieving her duffel bag from the small cargo compartment on her jet, Sam moved into the base and claimed a room. Lying on a military issue cot she stared blankly at the ceiling, trying to comprehend what was happening. So, no M.A.D. but we're still fucked pretty hard. If the Ruskkies tagged the President and the Joint Chiefs...fuck then Ottawa is glass too. Rubbing her face with the heel of her hand she groaned in frustration.

Throwing her feet on the floor, Sam opened her bag and took stock of what she had left of her old life. In there she found a spare fight suit, three changes of civvie clothing, one pair of runners, her PT gear, her service Browning Hi-Power, with sling holster and two spare mags, and last but not least a small laminated photo. After a shower, she pulled on some of her civvies and her side arm, tucking the photo into a pants pocket.

Moving around the sparsely populated corridors she bumped into people, who much like herself, were still in shock about what was going on. Unlike them however Sam had a mission and that mission was to find the bar. Minutes later she found what she wanted, a door marked 'Officers Club'. Pushing through the door she found the room surprisingly empty, but fortunately fully stocked and ready to go. A quick bit of rummaging behind the bar produced a bottle of rye whiskey, and a glass. Moving to a nearby booth, Sam poured three fingers then held the glass aloft. "To the Four Eleven...Godspeed Gentlemen."

 

[Grim327]

"Sir, yes sir!" Chris replied to the major. He grabbed his belongings from his jet, which included a photo of his mom and dad that he kept taped to his cockpit dashboard, and after making a quick inspection to see if she was still fly-worthy, he took a room. Chris retaped the photo above his bed and changed into his civilian clothes of jeans and a red t-shirt, snapped his M9 to his thigh, and headed for the lounge. After all that has happened today, a glass of whiskey might do him some good.

After a walking down a few halls and hitting some dead-ends, Chris found the 'Officer's Club' and stepped in. Much to his surprise, the room was empty, save for a lone female at a booth. He figured with a place as secret as this, there would be plenty of officers here, but then he thought they might be hard at work, or worst case scenario, there were few to make it here. "Mind pouring me a glass?" He said after grabbing a glass and looking towards the lady.

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

Roman had a lot to take in; so much was happening so soon. His entire squadron had been vaporized and he had no knowledge of the status back home. He knew two things were certain: this place was likely the safest place to be in the world right now, and he needed a drink. Though that would have to wait, for he needed to get proper accomodations in order to pass out safely. He hurried to his F-22, grabbed his belongings, keeping his M9 at his side in its holster with extra clips in his fatigues. The Major said there'd be plenty of room, Sure as hell wasn't kidding about that, thought Roman as he explored the living quarters to find a bunk.

Roman just chose one at random and began making himself at home. He decided against removing everything from his bag, thinking he'd need to bring it all along eventually. One thing he did decide on removing was a flask he stored in one of the pockets, though it had been empty for quite some time.

"I'd be hard-pressed to find better time for a refill," he muttered to himself as he pocketed the flask and searched for the Officer's Club. His search ended not long after it began, he had found what he was searching for and wasn't surprised to see a couple people inside. "Well, seems I ain't the only one with the right idea. What's the assessment on the whiskey?"

 

[Redryhno]

Nick took a bag from the cockpit, and started towards the rooms, apparently having the same idea as most of the others. As he reached the threshold of the door to the hall, he opened the closest room that wasn't occupied and threw the bag inside, content with the bounce he heard inside.

He followed another of the pilots who had a flask in his hand to wherever he was heading, in a bit of a haze from the shocks of today. His girls couldn't be gone, no, they had to have made it, the bases in England had plenty of shelters, they were closer to his parent's homeland than Montana, they must've had some kind of idea this was to happen. They were the political and intellectual hub of Europe, right? They couldn't have been taken by as much surprise as the U.S.. He was pulled out of his reverie by the man in front of him stopping and asking something about whiskey, he wasn't really paying attention to anything but the bottles laid out on the table. He pushed past the man and couldn't stop thinking that his girls were gone.

The man reached the bar, looked around for a vodka bottle and found it. He proceeded to grab the largest glass within arms reach, poured it to the tip and drank it down, not pausing for breath. He took a few deep breaths and a couple of coughs as he slammed the glass down on the bar, face red and a pressure and heat rising in his chest. He was able to calm himself, but not without his shoulders shaking and on the verge of tears.

Nick looked up to see the rest of the group in the room staring at him. He tried a weak smile that fell apart and instead poured another glass, this one much, much, less filled. He raised the bottle and offered it to whoever would take it.

"Please, someone take it, I don't need anymore."

 

[Athol]

"Mind pouring me a glass?"

"Shure..." Sam slurred. By the time Chris found her she had finished the bottle of rye gone and she was putting a dent in a 8 year old scotch. "S'pletny b'hind the bar asss well." After amazingly pouring Chris a drink without spilling, she shook his hand. "S'mantha Hickok frum Canada...call me Shodan."

Rummaging around in her pocket, she pulled out the laminated photo. "...and this is Max." The photo showed a rather attractive latino woman in her mid 20s leaning against a railing that was overlooking a beach. She was dressed in a black tank top and cut-off denim shorts, her face a big smile as she looked at the photographer. Lost in her own world, Sam's finger traced over the image as she kissed the slivery ring on her finger. [small]"Oh Maxie...I do miss you."[/small] She muttered.

Snapping back to the present, she shook her head. "So? Who are you?"

"What's the assessment on the whiskey?"

"One bottle down! Line'n up a shot on the others!" Sam yelled, before dissolving into laughter.

Spoiler: occ

Yes she in VERY drunk

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

"Woah," said Roman after being pushed aside by some guy that had just walked on through, heading straight for the vodka. "Easy, big guy, no need to rush."

After gulping down a great deal, the man poured himself another, considerably smaller portion before offering the bottle.

"Please, someone take it, I don't need anymore."

"Well, no fuckin' shit," said Roman. Soon after, he was greeted by the aparantly heavily drunken woman who, according to her, had already went through a bottle of the hard stuff. "Slow down there, hot shot - save some for the rest of us. On second thought, maybe I don't need a drink. Certainly not as badly as the both of ya seem to."

 

[Athol]

"Slow down there, hot shot - save some for the rest of us.?

"Ah bite me." Sam replied over the top of her glass. "Those motherfuckin' ruskki ASSHOLES jus' killed the last bit 'a family I had. Why shouldn't I get trashed?" Staggering to her feet, she lurched over to the bar and opened the fridge. Appearing with two bottles of beer in each had she made her way to the door before turning to address everyone else. "LATER COCKBITES!" She yelled before stumbling of down the hall, singing loudly.

Refuse, resist, war is my destiny!
Desire unleashed, war is my destiny!
Chaos, A.D., war is my destiny!
Under a pale grey sky, war is my destiny!

She was able to make it to her destination with little trouble, which was amazing considering how intoxicated she was. Sam's destination was the hanger, or more specifically, her 'Tiffy'. Using a maintenance ladder, she climbed into the wing and sat against the body of the jet stroking it like a favoured horse, silent tears streaming down her face. "[small]Jus' you an' me now...[/small]"

 

[PrinceOfShapeir]

The door to the lounge opened and Major Watson stepped inside. He seemed less bent than he had been when they had separated, he stood almost straight now, only leaning on his cane a little bit. "Thought I might find you all here. Things could be a lot worse than I had thought. The Russians look to be going for a war of conquest, most civilian population centers are still intact." He took a seat, groaning. "Time I retired, too. Been in this hole for near on thirty years." He reached into his uniform and pulled out a hip flask, taking a drink.

"Anyway, there's a -lot- of communication interference, but I managed to make a brief linkup with elements of the Force d'action navale, namely the Courbet. Before we lost communications, I was told that they were in contact with the Charles de Gaulle and her battlegroup. That's a fish even the Soviets will hesitate to go after. Not sure how they managed to avoid missile strikes, I was watching scopes when U.S.S. John C. Stennis got nuked. Maybe the French just got overlooked for this...strictly speaking, they aren't NATO. Apparently, things are as bad in Europe as they are here. Tanks are rolling into West Germany, Berlin is a warzone. Not as many nukes and assorted other WMD, but still a mess."

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

Roman was visibly relieved to hear that most civilian cities were left untouched, he just hoped his family was okay. As he listened to the Major speak, he walked over to the liquor cabinet and proceeded to fill his glass with some fancy-bottled scotch.

"Thirty years you say? I would've guessed forty. As for your retirement, I think it's safe to say your pension checks wouldn't be coming through very quickly anyhow. In all seriousness, it seems like the world's going to Hell in a handbasket. A handbasket liberally soaked in alcohol, mind you," Roman added whilst gesturing towards the man who drank the vodka as if it were tap water.

 

[Redryhno]

All that Nickolai heard was, "Not as many nukes and assorted other WMD, but still a mess."

He loudly exhaled, relieved that there was some kind of news out of Europe. There was still a good chance that Amelia and Carrie were still alive. He downed the rest of the glass and poured himself a small bit more, just a small celebratory drink. His girls were going to be ok, he was sure of it.

"They're safe, they'll be fine."His family's accent slipped through more than a little as he spoke, as it normally did after drinking a bit.