RolePlayGateway™

Chapter 1; Watching Good Men Die in the Surf

Looming, was the word that best described the setting of the Operation. It was looming, foreshadowing of the days events that would take place on the small ribbon of sand that separated land from water, earth from sea; and soon, life from death. The journey from the Azrican Carrier ANS Falsk was a quick and hasty one, though the carrier itself was mainly equipped with FM-23A Opposer's, several other DA-53N Brutes were on the flight list also. Though a common Azrican Pilot could choose to fly a number of aircraft, suggestions were made for this specific mission. Pilots were taught to learn the exact capabilities of every aircraft they would be tasked with flying, be it an Opposer, a Brute, or the venerable Shadow-Fighter.


Ackerman had leaped into the sky behind the yoke of the Opposer. The inverted-wing aircraft handled neatly for his tastes, it had firepower also. Four in-line 12.7 millimeter Electro-Magnetic Cannons mounted in the nose of the aircraft; weapons that had rightfully "revived" the era of the close in dogfight. Using skill and sheer skill alone, Ackerman was trained to slug it out with the best of Ori aircraft. While many designs that the Oriyaks had implemented were based off many planes seen in the Azrican Airforce, the Coalition had one distinct advantage in the skies. SONTAG, a radar system meant to blind, alter, and confuse it's opponents. Giving the Azricans time to swoop in close and fast, and send the enemy aircraft into the ground in a ball of fire.


Long Range Missile had become all but useless in this new era of dog fighting, one would have to sacrifice two lightweight close range missiles to fixate a long range one that had nearly a 50 percent chance of never hitting it's target. This would cause a "moving inward" battle approach, planes would not fire upon each other until they had broken the 15 kilometer range. In which, all cuffs would be released, and the storm would roll in.



The sea was a frothing angry one, breaking continuous amounts of salt-rich water onto the beach as the Opposer struck overhead. Leveling at nearly 950 feet, Ackerman would lean his head closer in to the bubble canopy of the FM-23 and look downward at the sight below, watching the stretch of yellow sand quickly fall behind him as the Opposer went from the ocean, to the land.
"Avalanche One to all Aircraft, Feet are no-longer wet. Break formation and commence support of Operation Swafford." Ackerman boomed, banking the aircraft to the left and jutting back into the fight as he spoke.

Beeping would greet him as he turned, SAM's. The lightweight, fast missiles would be launched from sites on the ground, targets which the DA-53's would have to eliminate if they wanted unregistered air-cover from those piloting Opposer's and Shadow-Fighters.
"We need Brute's on those SAM-Sites. Avalanche One calling for Air-to-Ground." Ackerman responded, the hands-free communication system was one of the newest improvements in the aircraft; couple that with a complete Bubble-Canopy HUD and 360 degree situational awareness was an easy thing to manage.


Akcerman's test would come soon though; on the small screen mounted in the middle of the dashboard, several blinking red squares. Oriyak aircraft moving to the sudden attack.
"Avalanche One to Aircraft, we have Red's moving in. TACK15 Active." He ordered, 'TACK15 Active' was the order to begin tracking the Oriyak Aircraft. The opposition was moving rapidly, and low, barely breaking 700 feet as they struck a course for the beachhead. Ackerman would have to move quickly to intercept, and his first task would be letting them slip by; Ackerman would be an easy target to spot on the radar, but the Oriyaks obviously had more pressing issues than one Azrican aircraft flying through the air.


As soon as they had passed by, Ackerman would swoop into his attack. A cackle over the communications as Acerkman threw the throttle open and swung behind the group of four aircraft.
"Avalanche One is engaged." He stated calmly; yet the odds were stacked against him, and unless he could count the Oriyaks not caring of his presence during his attack, he would have to tail them, and strike them individually. The others would have their own problems, and the entire Squadron's mission was the support of the 125th Infantry Division in their assault on Beach Seven in the Operation. This wasn't a time for Kill-Tallying.

This is TACK-15, over.

Owen did a simple response to the "TACK15 Active" Command, which signaled that he was going to be directing this flight now. He switched on the encrypted wireless link that would work between his flight and the ACAS aircraft, so that he only had to direct the fighters, while they would have the benefit of being able so a much larger range on their rader; Albeit there was a bit of lag during the major dogfights, but it still worked.

The RADAR on the ACAS was much more advanced and powerful that the nose-mounted fighter aircraft, and could identify targets with accuracy at ranges up to roughly 150 Kilometers. Owen of course, could be spotting for this flight and finding the enemy before they found them, something the bloody fighter pilots often took for granted.

Anton took note of the Radar contacts on both air and ground for a moment, before giving his orders of a sort to the flight. The radar screen, which was showing a line of SAM sites along the coast, numbering roughly 8 from Owen's count, along with a few stationary AAA sites that Owen assumed to be 60mm Emplacement. In the sky, apart from the already reported flight of fighters by Ackerman, there were three more just entering range, bringing the total to roughly twelve aircraft in all.

Alright, we've got AAA and SAM sites directly on the beach! Take those out before anything, and then concentrate on the fighters!

Avalanche One, you've got a SAM site at Three O'clock, take it out and try for the others. All other fighters, escort the Brutes until AA is down, over.

Alright, we've got AAA and SAM sites directly on the beach! Take those out before anything, and then concentrate on the fighters!

"Copy that, TACK15. This is Warehouse Six. I have the first set of SAMs in sight on the coastal beach. I'm taking them out." Marsch says this deep into his mask, communicating with the looming ACAS, somewhere above the veil of clouds, ranging from 5,000 to 10,000 feet from ground level. This was it. Time to show glory on one of his first protection missions. He breathed into the radio once more. "Cover my six, SkyArc."

Marsch lowered his elevation beneath 1,000 feet within a drop of 30 degrees, slightly diving his DA-53N Brute in on the SAMs that lay scattered across the coastal line. The sound of his 20mm nose-mounte​d EMC rattled beneath his cockpit, blasting off depleted uranium armor piercing shells at 3,900 rounds per minute. The smoke radiated around the plane.

The rounds that impacted with the ground shot up dirt and other materials, as well as the debris of the SAMs and other things in the guns range; grouped explosions and confusion.

Marsch's dash, HUD, and radar were blaring from a missile locked on him. He glared down at the radar and noticed the blimp appearing on his rear. As soon as it veered close enough Marsch's on-board computer released a round of Chaff into the air and Marsch barrel rolled out to the right, dodging the missile's range and the detonation; shrapnel included.

"A number of SAMs have been destroyed." Marsche repeats over the frequency. He tailed his ass back in formation with the other DA-53N Brute.

Philip Rogers sat in the cockpit of the aptly named DA-53N Brute, the powerhouse of the Azrican Air Force. Equipped with an array of EMC's, or Electro-Magnetic Cannons, and a payload of AGM-5 Missiles, the Brute boasted enough destructive weaponry to satisfy even the most blood-thirsty little bastard.

He gave a cursory glance over his radar display, and banked slightly, keeping in formation with the rest of the squadron. The craft answered smoothly to his touch, like the well designed beast it was.

Then they stopped flying over the ocean, and were now over the land.

"Avalanche One to all Aircraft, Feet are no-longer wet. Break formation and commence support of Operation Swafford." The voice boomed over the radio.

Philip obeyed, breaking away from the formation, and started seeking out his target. They were over the land now, and Philip dipped to a comfortable 400 foot altitude.

The voice crackled over the communication system again, "We need Brute's on those SAM-Sites. Avalanche One calling for Air-to-Ground."

Philip glanced down and saw the SAM anti-air batteries, scattered along the coastline. "Right," he muttered, and starting tapping on his HUD. Time to show these boys what a real fighter pilot looked like.

"Avalanche One to Aircraft, we have Red's moving in. TACK15 Active."

Philip glanced at his radar display, noting the blips closing on his position. Things were about to get hot.

"Avalanche One is engaged."

Philip said a silent prayer for his fellow pilot, and then concentrated on the task at hand. He needed to neutralize those AAAs and SAMs. Quickly.

The communication system blared to life once again, Alright, we've got AAA and SAM sites directly on the beach! Take those out before anything, and then concentrate on the fighters!

Avalanche One, you've got a SAM site at Three O'clock, take it out and try for the others. All other fighters, escort the Brutes until AA is down, over.

Philip banked, lining up a SAM in his sights. He responded to the communication, "Roger that TACK-15, this is Rockstar, over." He listened with half an ear to Warehouse Six acknowledge the order, making clear his intention to do some damage.

To his right, a DA-53N Brute came into view, dropping in altitude. The other craft's EMC hummed, launching a barrage of rounds into a couple of the SAMs. They exploded under the force of the rounds. The radio crackled, "A number of SAMs have been destroyed."

Philip nodded in satisfaction, and primed a missile. Locking on to a SAM, he paused, released his breath, and depressed the trigger. The craft shuddered imperceptibly, and the AGM-5 missile arced away from the underside of his left wing, trailing a stream of flame and smoke.

The missile turned, aligning itself with it's intended target, and sped onward. It impacted nicely with the SAM battery, triggering a rather satisfyingly large explosion. Chunks of burning metal and debris showered down, and only a smoldering chunk of slag was left.

Philip took a brief moment to use the radio, "Rockstar here; One SAM drained. Several more to go."

Philip targeted another SAM, and launched a second missile. The effect was a repeat performance of the first shot. A grim smile lanced across his features. Targeted, launched, nice big boom.

Turning the craft, he readied the nose-mounted EMC. This one was a particularly hefty gun, and could do a fair bit of damage, with it's extremely high rate of fire and depleted uranium slugs. Adjusting the Brute so that yet another SAM was within the targeting reticle, he held his breath and squeezed the trigger. That's it, easy does it. Don't over-squeeze the trigger...

The barrage of armor piercing rounds screamed towards the SAM, striking it with considerable force, and causing much mayhem. Things exploded.

Philip caused his craft to bank sharply, preparing to make another pass, to finish the job. Then he noticed the bogies painted on his radar display, rapidly closing on his position. He had company. And not the pleasant kind. Gritting his teeth, he shifted in his seat and prepared to employ evasive maneuvers, anticipating the missile that was sure to be coming his way.

He also activated the communications system, "This is Rockstar, I have bogies closing on my position, and they look like they mean business."

Not that he didn't think that his squad mates weren't already aware of his difficulty, it just made him feel better to voice his problems.

David, callsign SkyArc cruised through the air. With one hand searching for a potato chip in an hollow bag.

"Avalanche One to all Aircraft, Feet are no-longer wet. Break formation and commence support of Operation Swafford." The voice boomed over the radio.

They had reached land. The FM-23A Opposer he was piloting descended and accompanied the rest of the group.

An assistance request alerted David's attention, "Cover my six, SkyArc.". His Opposer extracted from the group and buddy spiked after Warehouse Six. This was his first official mission. He couldn't fail on his first mission or he'd be a laughingstock and if possible dead.

He barely had to do anything. The aircraft he was supposed to cover quickly annihilated a respectable amount of the SAMS. The Brute tailed back to the others.

Then a voice blared over the communication. "This is Rockstar, I have bogies closing on my position, and they look like they mean business." Maybe not blare. But it had sounded loud when it processed through his mind. This was an actual cry for support. Which meant action.

The FM-23A ascended and the radar beeped. There were boogies alright. Two of em. Boy, this was sure gonna fun.

As he got closer, the anonymous bogies were Oriyaks aircraft. As soon as he got into vision the Oriyaks unleashed a rain of fire. He attempted his best efforts to evade them, but he was hit four or five times. Nothing critical.

He zoomed past the bastards and did a vertical hook, making him fly upside down. He unleashed a barrage of shells on the Oriyak fiend which critically crippled one of its wings, therefore destroying it. The aircraft spiraled down into the Earth surrounded by a ball of smoke and fire.

His vision was somehow clearer and his eyes processed more images. Was this adrenaline? No it was better. He was ready to send the Oriyak to hell.

That left only one more opponent. Which was undoubtedly much more skilled then the aircraft he had taken down, maybe even more skilled than himself. He was going to need more then luck to beat this mother.

The aircraft was retreating. And fast. David knew he had to go faster. He quickly increased his speed and got into line with the enemy. But, boy was he in trouble. Missiles blasted at him. The clouds shifted to reveal another Oriyak aircraft.

"That bastard tried to do a cheap shot at me." David mumbled. He was going to fire, but the enemy retreated under the veil of the clouds.

"I'm gonna get cha you son of a..." He was cut off by the sudden realization of the prime enemy. "Auugh..." David grunted. It had shot his wing, the one that was already assaulted. It was smoking as well. He was hurt, but not down. David maneuvered right towards the enemy, in the line of fire, he had a plan. Surely the enemy became confused. As he expected, the enemy fired. David quickly dismissed his trail and dodged the fire. He zig-zaged into the clouds and hoped his plan was going to work. He lowered his speed when he saw the retreating Oriyak. And as planned it followed him. When he heard random fire and turned back up as the jet was assaulted by his own ally's fire.

David balanced the odds. It was him against the last Oriyak. The enemy burst through the clouds and was soon shadowed by David, he panicked. It was now. This moment. Both his thumbs pressed down releasing an outbreak of fire which damaged the Oriyak and sent it diving down to Earth with it's allies.

David gave a heavy sigh of relief and cruised back to his allies.

David grabbed his radio and breathed into the communication proudly. "3 enemy Oriyaks splashed."

Isabelle Brisson, Airman First Class. A title she'd never pictured on herself two years ago when she'd gotten into this crap. Her plan had been to be with the others, the ones hundreds of feet below, raiding the beach, safely on the ground. Well...perhaps safely wasn't the word. To her though, at that time, it had been much safer than being up in the air. No, she never would have seen herself here. After her first flight though, she'd known, there was no other way. The exhilaration as she ripped through the sky, the feeling of the FM-23A Opposer, her fighter, encasing her safely inside as it bore the ruthless whip of the air; they electrified her, like fire through her veins. She loved it. She belonged here. This would be her first big mission since her recruitment, but she was far from nervous. She was ecstatic, eager, almost jumpy in her excitement. It was taking all of her willpower to keep herself relatively calm.

Avalanche One to all Aircraft, Feet are no-longer wet. Break formation and commence support of Operation Swafford. Came the voice, crackling out of the radio, filling the cockpit with a recognizable voice. Bella's gaze flickered out; they were over the land now. She grinned and pushed forward, breaking out of the careful formation of the jets and lowering down a few hundred feet, closer to the action of the battle. Her hands were tight, her heart beating feverishly. She wanted in on this.

It didn't take long. Alright, we've got AAA and SAM sites directly on the beach! Take those out before anything, and then concentrate on the fighters!

That would be for the Brutes. She watched as they trailed off, swerving off after to provide backup while they did their job, keeping a distance. It didn't take long; the first successfully eliminated several SAMs right off the cuff, trailing back to reunite with the group while his partner continued ahead, taking on the rest. He took one with a missile, the next with a few well-aimed rounds from his EMC.

Her attention was caught by a bleeping on her radar, and she diverted her eyes away. Hostiles. A few of them, tailing after the remaining Brute. As if one cue, the radio crackled to life again.

This is Rockstar, I have bogies closing on my position, and they look like they mean business.

The young pilot's face lit up in a grin, and she activated her communications. “Copy that, Rockstar. This is Aysa, I got you.” She tried to hide the excitement in her voice, and failed mierably. She pushed the throttle and swerved down to her companion's level, seeing one of the other Opposers falling in as well. He successfully occupied the first two, downing one immediately, but Bella didn't wait to see any more. She had her own issues to deal with now.

She set up behind the first enemy, a bright grin stuck on her face as she readied her first missile. No wasting time; she wanted to see that asshole blown to pieces. She prepared, her weapon of choice here an ATS-7, strong enough to at least cripple it if she hit. She would.

As she fired, she felt the tremble of the fighter, and the missile released, streaking in a mess of flame and smoke; it hit true, striking the body of the enemy jet. A mess of flames and wrecked metal, and they were down, bringing an elated cry of, “Fuck yeah, bitch!". She laughed ecstatically, watching for but a moment before she swerved off to pursue the next one.

It didn't take her long. The Brute was distracted with the other Opposer, which left her enemy unguarded. She didn't waste time with her EMC, instead preparing another missile. However, the enemy fighter unexpectedly swerved down out of the way, out of her sight for a moment. She cursed and swiveled down to follow as they dropped and twisted away. Her smile returned quickly, a laugh escaping her throat. They wouldn't be able to turn in time. She released the missile and it shot off towards it's target; her aim was off, missing the cockpit where she'd hoped to strike. However, she successfully took out a wing. The fighter began to spiral down. She laughed with glee and arched back to rejoin the others. “Targets successfully ass-beaten, Rockstar. Get back on those SAMs.”

Ackerman was held within his own world; a world filled with beeping, screeching, whizzing, and his warm breath filling his face mask lashed around his lower jaw that filtered his own breath. Scrubbing it and recycling it through with every deep inhale and exhale. His breathing was labored, his heart was in his throat, and he shuddered at the rattle of the airframe as the Opposer sped through the formation of four Oriyak fighters.

He would have to act quickly, after throwing himself into the frying pan like that. There was cause, though, Ackerman was far from the major fight. Far from the intended mission of supporting the Brutes and friendly Azrican Pilots. There was cause for this, also. As per Azrican Policy regarding air combat during the Seventh War; the most experienced pilot, and often being the highest ranking, was to focus primarily on the support of all his units. Over all objective regardless. What this meant, was he put himself out in an attempt to preoccupy the most dangerous opposing force while the remainder of the Squadron pursued their objective to the fullest.

"Avalanche One is in the frying pan. Over." Ackerman offered as a bellowing ping light up the HUD; notifying him that an enemy fighter had a successful radar-lock, and was preparing to fire a close-range missile. Something Ackerman didn't feel like being hit by. His moves would flow perfectly and synchronized, by slicing the throttle, thrashing the yoke sideways, and slamming the yaw in the opposite direction would bring Ackerman swooping upwards and to the side. Narrowly avoiding a sleek, metallic missile striking past before detonating ineffectively tens of meters from the Opposer.

Though the beeping still filled his ears, albeit at a much slower pace now, which meant that a radar-lock was indeed achieved, yet the enemy was incapable of successfully launching a missile that would have a chance of striking his Opposer. He could begin an offensive; he could bring the fight directly to them. He would have to act quick though, cutting the throttle completely backwards and waiting to begin his attack.

They would come shooting overhead, fast and gaining speed. They had attempted to eliminate him in one swoop, hardly taking the time to cut their speed and follow through completely with their attack. That was Ackerman's advantage, and he would pursue it to the greatest. He began the attack rapidly, jutting upwards while priming the radar and preparing an array of on-line EMC's and ATS-7 Close-Range Missiles then proceeding to slam the throttle forward and gain speed that would be required for following through with his attack on the enemy.

"Fox One." Ackerman mumbled autonomously, a finger clicking onto a small red trigger that would release an ATS-7. 'Fox One', the Military jargon used to clarify the launch of an aircrafts payload, be that Air-to-Air Missile, or Air-to-Ground. Though many pilots did not use the full extent of the database of "Military Words", Ackerman was a firm believer in use of the system. Watching the missile trail, and inevitably smash upward into the rear jet of the Oriyak aircraft, and watching the resounding detonation accompanied by the complete disintegration of the craft; he would smash forward into the attack. 12.7mm EMC's booming and cracking through the formation as Ackerman traced a line through the midst. Striking several of the craft and reveling in his victory while pieces and chunks of metal fell from the enemy craft.


"This is Avalanche One to all craft, let's get those SAM's out. Those guys on the beach need the skies."