The Danger Zone

[Heinlander]

Engines revving; listen to the turbine's song as it reaches speed like a rotary heart. It swallows hot desert air and metabolizes it, rendering the raw elemental into speed force. The metal chassis tenses, urging skyward, chasing the unclouded battlefield sweeping in like a rainstorm over this droughted land. There's no civilization for miles in every direction, only sepia painted dunes rolling like waves in a turbulent sea and in its center, like a tumor of metal and glass, rises templelike from the sand their airbase, mecca of battle, sword of the nation struck into the wasteland as if a mirage to beguile the invader's senses.

Raptors streak from the airstrips like arrows aimed to the sun and gleaming silver therein, thunderbolts loosed from a god's wrathful magazine. The desert rumbles from their ascent, and in seconds they form into tight squadrons, their contrails drawing neat and direct lines on a highway to the sky. Radio chatter between them is clear and staccato; no wasted words, no delayed commands, a perfect symphony of synchronicity. The machines are immaculate, meticulously tuned and detailed. Each is scarred with hashmarks for successful kills. None are undecorated, and some are but garish in their display. And of course, the symbol of their hegemony, that black grenade like death's spot emblazoned upon each Raptor. They accelerate, pushing towards that red line as they close in on their targets.

There, nearing from the horizon's edge. An escorted squadron of Tupolevs, like huge swans schooled about by support fighters. The Goon pilots, even at distance, need only a casual glance at the formation to plot out the sortie. They are disorganized, random in their spread. Some bombers are entirely unprotected while their interceptors buzz about like queenless bees busying themselves but accomplishing nothing. They are inexperienced; for some war is just an academic exercise carried out in textbooks and simulators. The Sniper has armed children with weapons of war and expects them to overthrow a far greater hegemony than their own feeble association.

Shooting solution; missiles wind through the air and reach the invading fleet. Explosions burst over the desert and the debris of five bombers strike the sand black and heat warped. Panic sets in amidst Schmyville pilots; what few seasoned veterans they have in their ranks struggle to maintain command amidst Pandemonium's wave, fail, and are shot down in blazing salvos. The Goon swarm maintains ranks as their opponents scatter towards the sky's corners. Some fighters attempt reprisal; the Lederhosen pilots don't bother even wasting missiles on them, and rip them apart with 20mm gunfire in seconds. 9 fighters are shattered as the rest abandon their duties and leave the vulnerable bombers to the wolves.

The Goon pilots are aces; they toy with the bombers, flying circles around them and corralling them like cattle. Chatter bursts through the radio as they cheer when two aircraft smash into one another, exploding in a terrific fireball. One squadron forgoes its missiles and instead clips the wings of their target with vulcan fire. They snap of and twirl through the air like samara seeds stripped from maple branches, and the amputated fuselage plummets to the earth and crashes loudly, killing its crew in fire.

Finally the last Tupolev is sunk. A few squadrons break off to mop up the straggling fighters. Only a single Goon plane has been lost, the product of a lucky shot from a Schmyville jet that drained its fuel tanks. The pilot stands atop a dune surveying the smoldering carcass of his vehicle burning amidst the fields of debris. The carnage is spread for miles, dotting the desert with broken airframes and alloy driven like knives into the sand. He looks up and sees his brothers streaking back to the airbase. He sits on the dune. He pulls a small metal flask from his left boot and unscrews the lid and takes a pull from it. Homeland whiskey burns smoothly down his throat, and he bows his head and gives a single fingered salute to the men swallowed up by the desert.

[HalfEmpty]

I guess 75 micrograms.

[Choson]

[quote name='Heinlander' timestamp='1283799383' post='2444153']
Engines revving; listen to the turbine's song as it reaches speed like a rotary heart. It swallows hot desert air and metabolizes it, rendering the raw elemental into speed force. The metal chassis tenses, urging skyward, chasing the unclouded battlefield sweeping in like a rainstorm over this droughted land. There's no civilization for miles in every direction, only sepia painted dunes rolling like waves in a turbulent sea and in its center, like a tumor of metal and glass, rises templelike from the sand their airbase, mecca of battle, sword of the nation struck into the wasteland as if a mirage to beguile the invader's senses.

Raptors streak from the airstrips like arrows aimed to the sun and gleaming silver therein, thunderbolts loosed from a god's wrathful magazine. The desert rumbles from their ascent, and in seconds they form into tight squadrons, their contrails drawing neat and direct lines on a highway to the sky. Radio chatter between them is clear and staccato; no wasted words, no delayed commands, a perfect symphony of synchronicity. The machines are immaculate, meticulously tuned and detailed. Each is scarred with hashmarks for successful kills. None are undecorated, and some are but garish in their display. And of course, the symbol of their hegemony, that black grenade like death's spot emblazoned upon each Raptor. They accelerate, pushing towards that red line as they close in on their targets.

There, nearing from the horizon's edge. An escorted squadron of Tupolevs, like huge swans schooled about by support fighters. The Goon pilots, even at distance, need only a casual glance at the formation to plot out the sortie. They are disorganized, random in their spread. Some bombers are entirely unprotected while their interceptors buzz about like queenless bees busying themselves but accomplishing nothing. They are inexperienced; for some war is just an academic exercise carried out in textbooks and simulators. The Sniper has armed children with weapons of war and expects them to overthrow a far greater hegemony than their own feeble association.

Shooting solution; missiles wind through the air and reach the invading fleet. Explosions burst over the desert and the debris of five bombers strike the sand black and heat warped. Panic sets in amidst Schmyville pilots; what few seasoned veterans they have in their ranks struggle to maintain command amidst Pandemonium's wave, fail, and are shot down in blazing salvos. The Goon swarm maintains ranks as their opponents scatter towards the sky's corners. Some fighters attempt reprisal; the Lederhosen pilots don't bother even wasting missiles on them, and rip them apart with 20mm gunfire in seconds. 9 fighters are shattered as the rest abandon their duties and leave the vulnerable bombers to the wolves.

The Goon pilots are aces; they toy with the bombers, flying circles around them and corralling them like cattle. Chatter bursts through the radio as they cheer when two aircraft smash into one another, exploding in a terrific fireball. One squadron forgoes its missiles and instead clips the wings of their target with vulcan fire. They snap of and twirl through the air like samara seeds stripped from maple branches, and the amputated fuselage plummets to the earth and crashes loudly, killing its crew in fire.

Finally the last Tupolev is sunk. A few squadrons break off to mop up the straggling fighters. Only a single Goon plane has been lost, the product of a lucky shot from a Schmyville jet that drained its fuel tanks. The pilot stands atop a dune surveying the smoldering carcass of his vehicle burning amidst the fields of debris. The carnage is spread for miles, dotting the desert with broken airframes and alloy driven like knives into the sand. He looks up and sees his brothers streaking back to the airbase. He sits on the dune. He pulls a small metal flask from his left boot and unscrews the lid and takes a pull from it. Homeland whiskey burns smoothly down his throat, and he bows his head and gives a single fingered salute to the men swallowed up by the desert.
[/quote]

The citizens of my nation wept tears of joy and happiness when read this over the state supported television network.

[Owned-You]

I'm in the zone now.

[Lairek]

In all the nations of the Order we salute these brave men who protect our skies!

And it is not just in Taanstafl that we fight. In Carameli, brave pilots shot down 16 enemy bombers and 3 escort fighters earlier this evening.

Truly, we are the masters of the sky!