Mercenaries and planes

Unknown
RPG published by Steve
No. of Players	2+
First Publication	2010 (We hope)
Essential Books	Air War C21

This totally unknown homebrew gave me faith in /tg/ "Holy Shit! Planes and Mercs! - Product promotional tagline.

Post that started the Planefap /tg/

"Our GM has said that our new game will be set up as a mercenary air squadron. We've been given an initial account, and he has lists of stuff to buy. Now he's been pretty generous with our allowance, since short of a F-22, or most modern bombers, we can afford stuff. The downside is paying for maintenance on some of these planes, as well as ammo, etc. I'm not worried about the aircombat, our GM has always rocked vehicle combat, but I know nothing about planes or helicopters, other than a few names.

What should I take? Our group is based out of an airfield in remote Laos, all weapons will be black market."

The Squadron:

Baron

• IAI F-4/2000 Phantom II
  • Min Speed: 5
  • Max Speed: 25
  • Power Class: High Power
  • Accel 1 and 2: +3 / +2
  • Decel: -4
  • Maneuver Class: Medium
  • Gun: 7d6
  • Gun Ammo: 7
  • Bomb Computer Rating: +4
  • Damage Points: 8
  • Chaff: 8
  • Flares: 8
  • ECM: -
  • Radar: 3+L
  • Size: +0
  • Spot: +1
  • Load points: 32
  • Year Introduced: 1989
• Typical Loadout: 4xPython, 4 AIM-7

Biscuit

• F-4 Phantom

(no details posted)

Hugs

• Su-27 Flanker-B
  • Minspd: 5
  • Maxspd: 27
  • Power: HP
  • Accel: +4 /+3
  • Decel: -4
  • Maneuver: H
  • Gun: 6d6
  • Ammo: 5
  • Bomb Computer +2
  • Damage: 8
  • Chaff: 8
  • Flare: 8
  • ECM: -1
  • Rdr: 3+L
  • Size: +1
  • Spot: +1
  • Load: 31
  • Built: 1984
• General Loads: 6xAA-10 4xAA-11

Sandman

• F-111D Aardvark
  • Minspd: 4
  • Maxspd: 25
  • Power: MP
  • Accel: +2 /+2
  • Decel: -4
  • Maneuver: M
  • Gun: 7d6
  • Ammo: 20
  • Bomb Computer +6
  • Damage: 9
  • Chaff: 8
  • Flare: 8
  • ECM: -1
  • Rdr: 6
  • Size: +2
  • Spot: +1
  • Load: 39
  • Built: 1971
• General Loads: None

Scotch

• Mirage F1E
  • Minspd: 5
  • Maxspd: 23
  • Power: MP
  • Accel: +2 /+2
  • Decel: -4
  • Maneuver: H
  • Gun: 6d6
  • Ammo: 7
  • Bomb Computer +2
  • Damage: 6
  • Chaff: 8
  • Flare: 8
  • ECM: -
  • Rdr: 5
  • Size: 0
  • Spot: 0
  • Load: 18
  • Built: 1974
• General Loads: 2xMagic

A word on game mechanics

Steve is using a custom mod of the modern air combat tabletop simulation Air War C21. Mainly he added a role playing aspect and included the pilot skill system in the simulation.

Turn

There are two 'phases' in a turn. The phases were broken down into 4 stages.

• 1 Planning
• 2 Movement
• 3 Firing
• 4 Speed

The first part you change your engine power, declare maneuvers, roll for initiative. You also do spotting, either radar or visual. Movement is pretty simple.

Firing involves achieving missile locks, or bombing solutions. if you fire a missile, it goes 'in flight', and the next phase they hit potentially.

The speed section is all about dealing with stalls and stall recovery if you stalled out. You can end up stalling if you pull a maneuver that reduces speed below minimum. Overspeed is also dealt with here.

Stats

• Minimum speed in blocks/inches.

(if it's speed drops below this it stalls and may crash).

• Maximum speed in blocks/inches.

The distance moved in each of the 2 phases in a turn. Aircraft suffer damage if they exceed this maximum speed.

• Power Class

The raw power generated by the aircraft’s engines, allows ability to perform some maneuvers.

• Accel 1

Acceleration the engine can produce in phase 1 of a turn. This is the maximum amount the aircraft’s speed can be increased at the start of the phase.

• Accel 2

Acceleration the engine can produce in phase 2 of a turn. This is the maximum amount the aircraft’s speed can be increased at the start of the phase.

• Decel

Mmaximum amount the aircraft can reduce speed in either phase of a turn, by cutting the throttle, opening airbrakes, etc.

• Maneuver Class

The aircraft’s maneuver rating, a measure of its ability to turn and perform maneuvers.

• Gun

The base number of dice when making a gun attack with internal guns.

• Ammo

The number of units of gun ammo carried by the aircraft for it's internal guns. Each unit represents one second of fire.

• Bomb comp

A modifier reflecting the capability and accuracy of the aircraft’s bomb sights and computer.

• Damage Points

The damage value of the aircraft; the aircraft is crippled when the number of damage points suffered equals at least half this value, and it is destroyed when the number of damage points suffered equals or exceeds this value.

• Chaff flares

Self explanatory

• ECM

Modifier. Baron has none Radar modifier, for spotting and missile locks. the L is for long range

• Size

Is how big the plane is for people trying to see me

• Spot

Is how good the plane is for visual spotting other aircraft, in this case I get a bonus for the extra crew member.

• Load points

Ordanance on the wings

• Year

Easy

• Missile load

Typical carry.

• Notes

Baron's Phantom has no notes, although vertical take off and stuff would go in the notes section.

Missions

"Horse Therapy"

Briefing

• BlackFlag Internal Document

#100298

• Mission Briefing

“Horse Therapy”

• Deployment

Kisangani

• Pancake

Kisangani

• Alternate

None (We are still negotiating with the provisional government)

• AAR

None

• AWACS

None

• CSAR

MI-24 Hind + Jaeger Flight. Eight Million Sortie Fee if utilized

• Contract Employer

Ministre de Sécurité Externale, France

• Objective

Destruction of suspected Sudan terrorist training camp and airfield located at the old Marida airfield, just inside the Sudanese border. Primary targets are the airfield runway, fuel dump in the southeast, and the command bunker to the north northwest.

• Background

These guys have been a thorn in the side of France's efforts to pacify the region. Due to UN regulations as well as their own civil government issues, the French have not had the ability to simply remove this training camp. That's where we come in. Taking out the command bunker will most likely remove some key leadership positions, and with the airstrip gone, will force the OPFOR to move on the ground, where the French security force has a presence and a good chance of catching and stopping them.

• Intel (HUMINT free)

OPFOR likely disorganized, undertrained. Equipment status rated at no better then barely serviceable. Most equipment unmanned unless alert given. OPFOR operates off grid, and does not benefit from outside intel, support, elint.

• Air Assets

Two MiG-17s, One MiG-21, Two Bell Huey Gunships.

• Surface Assets

SA-2 system, 4xZSU-23 at objective.

• Intel (Remote Imaging free)

Attached you will find the latest keyhole pass. We've marked off targets and defences. We could not find the fourth ZSU-23, and suspect that the OPFOR has begun camo-netting the emplacements, or simply placed it inside for maintenance.

• Threat Assessment

Very Low. The biggest threats will be from the MiG-21 and the SA-2 system, neutralize them first, and the rest of this mission should be a cakewalk.

• ROE

No limits in Sudanese Airspace. Return fire only in DRC airspace.

Recap

We decided that a dawn time on target would be best. The strike guy had been reading up and figured that if they had any shifts at all, that would be prior to a fresh shift taking over, and at the end of night shift, so lowest possible awareness. We then decided how to handle the strike package. We figured that the Flanker would hang back until the SA-2 was down.

I was given the mission of taking out the SA-2, while a simultaneous strike from the F-111 would take place at high speed over the runway using runway cratering bombs. Then the Mirage and the other F-4 would sweep in, taking out the ZSUs and the fuel dump, while the F-111 climbed and circled back to the bunker. Following that, we agreed we'd stick around for 5 to ten minutes maximum, looking for targets of opportunity, while the Flanker gave us overwatch, then head back to base. That was the plan anyway.

Steve handed us out aircraft data sheets, sort of like the one's in that MAS but different, there were some other things he add on them. We got to draw our weapons loadout (which was way cooler then it sounds) and Steve walked us through the basic mechanics, which, to his credit, weren't overly complicated, but I still ended up asking tons of questions druing the game.

I need to set the scene here, we're sitting around a table, and Steve whips out these massive poster size papers, and lays them down in his living room, moving the tables out of the way. He's got the Google earth map printed out on four of them, and on the other he has a larger scale map, which is labeled “BVR Strategic Map”, and gives us our plane markers, which we place on the strategic map, roughly 100 miles out. We'd been coming in nose cold he told us, and said that it was now entirely up to us what happened. He then flipped on some mix cd on which he had audioslave and some other songs, but overlayed with 'radio chatter' from I'm guessing combat aircraft. I didn't think it would be cool at first, but having that in the background just took things up a notch.

I decided to go to mid altitude for my run (10000 to 28000ft) The Aardvark dove for the deck, and prepared to make a high speed run. The Flanker began to loiter, and the Mirage slipped back, still closing, but not as quick as me or the Aardvark. I closed to eighty miles, my RWR started to go off, and I made my detection roll, so I thought I was good. But then Steve put the source marker on the BVR map, and it wasn't where the SA-2 was. And in the next turn, at fifty miles out, Steve told me that not only had the source narrowed the search pattern to a track, but the source was moving.

Before the mission, we had all agreed on radio silence, and Steve said that the Aardvark could also 'see' the radar source. Which meant it must be airborne. I turned away, and jammed on my afterburners, to go faster towards the airbase. The Flanker, having also spotted the emission source, turned towards it, as well as the Mirage and F4, following behind. Then all hell broke loose, the SA-2 radar lit up, and I was told* that it progressed from search to track to fire control within about ten seconds. Which meant (again, asking steve what it all meant) that most likely an SA-2 was in the air heading towards me. Steve said my backseater would be telling me all this anyways.

I figured waiting would be stupid, so I dumped two AGM-78s immediately, since I was inside firing range. The bad thing, was that Steve passed me a big book of missiles, and I saw this, which I hadn't considered. The SA-2 flies at mach 3.5+, whereas my AGMs do maybe Mach 2. So there was no time for the radar to go down. I dove, and at Steve's reccomendation, started ejecting chaff.

The Flanker decided enough was enough, and turned on his radar, which meant that everyone could now see him. However, when his radar went on, the airborne radar source turned towards him, away from me. The bad news was that two new targets went on the board, one just off the runway, the other apparently 'climbing and turning' off the runway. The plan was going to shit. Luckily at this point, the Aardvark was just cresting the final small ridge, and flew a straight line down the runway, pumping off Durandals “left and right like fucking rice at a goddamn wedding' to quote the strike player. As he made his run, Steve told him that he could see dead ahead coming off the runway, a heat source, and on the runway, a moving shape, but that was it.

The Aardvark peeled out low, to the left, away from the climbing aircraft. I leveled out just above the ground (barely made my roll), and travelled on the worst intercept line. The SA-2 must have lost lock, because my backseater called out that he had two missile trails pass above us, a little ways back. At this point we broke radio silence, and the Aardvark called off secondaries from the radar site, so I pulled back up to sniff around again.

The other F-4 and Mirage now were turning to line up with the field and were coming in very fast, the mirage trying to find the ZSUs. The flanker achieved a lock and let loose two Alamos at it's target, and a few tense moments later, saw a small flash on the horizon. The target track became erratic, and then broke up, and considering that a kill, the Flanker began a quick zoom climb to try to gain altitude. The Durandals absolutely shitkicked the runway, and also produced a large fireball, but I'll get to that.

Without warning, well, other than the radar detector screaming, two new targets popped up just as the Aardvark and I were coming in on the base, and the F-4 and Mirage were about 30 seconds out. A flurry of tracers reached out, and one of them found the F-111 briefly. I asked Steve if the remaining Harms had a lock, and he said there were two sources, so I rattled off the last two at one of them, rewarded by one hit and secondaries. The Aardvark headed outbound to assess damage, it didn't sound good, power was down in one engine, and he was losing oil pressure fast.

Then the Mirage and the Phantom came to play. The Mirage roared in, Brimstones roaring out towards the remaining ZSU like the fingers of an angry god. And they hit like a haymaker to the testicles, setting off the internal ammo and fuel, propelling the remains of the turret into the air.

The F-4 went nose hot approaching the airfield, and immediately picked up two targets, one headed towards him, the other still climbing off the departure end of the runway. There was no chance at a shot on the closing aircraft, the F-4 passed well underneath, but he did switch to AIM-9s, and Jan shouted FOX THREE and sent them both at the heat source. Again, one of them missed, but not the first one, which flew true, and scored a proximity kill, the aircraft was losing pieces of airframe and spewing tons of smoke, beginning a shallow descent. The backseater also called out with a shout that there was a destroyed MiG-17 on fire inside a five meter crater on the runway. The Mirage continued racing outbound, close to the ground.

The Flanker, having completed their climb, leveled out, and quickly called out to me that the enemy target was turning in my direction. I applied full military burner, but it was too late. Steve, acting as my backseater started shouting FLARE FLARE FLARE, and I complied. It partially saved me, along with a hard jink. However the heatseekers chasing me still detonated close to me, and my panel lit up (Steve started writing out warnings on it), slight engine problem, and my AIM-9s were reporting faults across the board, so essentially I now had no air-to-air. My backseater was shouting at me now, telling me the MiG-21 was settling in on my tail, and probably getting ready for a cannon shot.

I'll never know, because out of fucking nowhere, two missiles dropped at 70 degree angles down onto the MiG, the last of the Flanker's payload. The fishbed didn't have a chance, it was blown into a thousand small pieces by the heavy Alamo missiles. I figured it would be best to evaluate my situation, and the Aardvark called in saying he was down to one engine, and was climbing about 20 miles away, preparing for a higher altitude bomb run.

We figured we had done it, but then two more ZSUs opened up on the Mirage. They must have seen the HARM strike, because we didn't see any radars. It showed, since they both had trouble tracking the hard maneuvering Mirage as it bore down on the airfield, launching the last Brimstones. It was almost anti-climactic, as the ATGMs slaughtered the mobile anti air guns.

However, Steve, being a dick, threw another curve ball, and told us that another SA-2 style search radar was operational, and looking for targets. It was off to the east of the base, the F-4 was already on a run at the fuel dump and couldn't correct in time, so he abandoned his run and turned slightly, and began dumping rockets at the SA-2 launch area. Unfortunately he couldn't count fireballs, but he certainly tore into the launch area, and probably bought the mirage the time it needed to make the turn, and come over the area, pickling off 1000 pounders and also sending a volley of missiles at the new radar

We later found out it was a mobile radar, parked next to the local village. The radar truck did not survive, and the Flanker pilot, who was well within the kill zone for the SA-2 breathed a sigh of relief. After that, we did a few more strafing runs, although I didn't bother, with my semi-buggered engine. As we turned to depart, the F-111 sent a final “Fuck You” with two GBU-15s on TV guidance at the bunker complex.

We all made it home, although the Aardvark suffered multiple hydraulic failures on the return flight, and was forced to dump all remaining ordnance, and belly landed (no crash though, airframe recoverable).

Summary

• Mission Success.
• Air Kills
  • Hugs: 1 MiG-21
  • Biscuit: 1 MiG-17

• - Air Incidentals -
  • Hugs: 1 J-7 (Sudanese Air Force)

• Ground Kills
  • Sandman: Runway, MiG-17, Command Bunker
  • Biscuit: 4 SA-2 missiles, 1 Barracks
  • Scotch: Three ZSU-23, Fuel Dump, 1 Mobile Radar
  • Baron: SA-2 Radar site, ZSU-23

• - Ground Incidentals -
  • Scotch: 3 Houses, local food market, 2 Trucks, 1 Car, 6 bicycles

• Damage Taken
  • Baron: Minor Engine, Minor airframe
  • Sandman: Major Engine, minor airframe
  • Scotch: Negligible control surface.

"Footloose"

Briefing

• BlackFlag Internal Document

#100301

• Mission Briefing

“Footloose”

• Deployment

Kisangani

• Pancake

Kisangani

• Alternate

None (We are still negotiating with the provisional government)

• AAR

None

• AWACS

“Watcheye” flight R-99A available for 10m, on request.

• CSAR:

C-27J + Jaeger Flight. Ten Million Sortie Fee if utilized

• Contract Employer

Ministre de Sécurité Externale, France

• Objective

Destruction of bridges located at +3° 59' 37.61", +16° 7' 3.23" and +3° 59' 41.12", +16° 7' 35.43". Escort of FFL AN-12 to target area, followed by Close Air Support if required.

• Background

The French foreign affairs ministry appreciated your efforts in Sudan, and have asked for you on another strike mission. Over the past six months, they've been fighting a proxy campaign in the Central African Republic, using foreign regulars to combat the growing insurrection against their puppet ruler they instated. They've recently suffered setbacks, as armed technicals and stocks of ATGMs and RPGs have been making their way north into the country, as well as a growing rebel movement. They've identified a point of entry however, and have come up with a way to hopefully neutralize the shipments and earn the local population's support. By eliminating the bridges, the weapons shipments will be delayed. The French expect that the bridge destruction will make the rebels attempt to make a decisive strike on the town north of the river, especially when the radio transmissions will make it seem like the CAR army is preparing for an assault and is staging in the town, when in reality only a token garrison is present. The French ministry has arranged for a detachment of the French Foreign Legion to arrive in the “Nick of Time” to stop the assault. You will remain in the operations area, providing close air support until the FFL authorizes termination of air cover.

• HUMINT (Free)

Unavailable. The public supports the rebels in the area and the French have been unsuccessful at securing a reliable field operative in the region.

• Air Assets

None.

• Surface Assets

Unknown number of Towed BOFORs guns, SA-7, RedEye MANPADS.

• Remote Imaging (Free)

Next overflight at 1438 local. Analysis and Imagery available for standard rate of 3 million.

• Threat Assessment

Very Low. Primary concern is on time delivery of fire support missions as called in by FFL ground troops.

• ROE

Visual Id/Defensive Fire ROE applies. Targets called in by FFL are considered valid for weapons release. You are not authorized to engage rebel targets until the FFL is on scene, even if the town Garrison is overrun.

Recap

Ok, so here's how it started. Before we started, Steve told us all what the range to the target was. I suggested buddy tanking (Thanks Guys!) and he told us this was probably the smartest idea. We agreed to minimize the use of the tanker, the Flanker took a belly tank, so wouldn't require any tanking for the entire mission. My F-4 took two Ferry tanks two rocket pods, 4 AIM-9s, and four GBU-12s, the F-111 took four tanks, with the buddy system, as well as two GBU-15s and a bunch of GBU-12s. The other F-4 took the same loadout as me. The mirage had two BLG-66EC cluster bombs, and four GBU-12s, 2x Aden gun pods but no tanks. I also bought an upgraded IR detector, so with luck I wouldn't get toasted by a stupid heat seeker.

We decided against any satellite intelligence, or other sources. Our plan was to stay high, out of the way of ground fire, and then come in at ridiculous speed when called by the FFL. At my suggestion we asked and were told that the FFL would communicate with us via secure UHF, and would enter the area when required. The plan was that the flanker would investigate air threats, while one of the F-4s did full power long range scans in a racetrack, looking for enemies, and directing the flanker nose cold to them. Ground attack would be the mirage first, the F-4s if needed, and the F-111 if absolutely necessary. The F-111 was to stay out of combat, because it was the lifeline back to the base.

We took off uneventfully, no one used burner, and with some of us being pretty heavy, we had to make a few skill rolls to make sure we didn't fly into some low level trees. Luckily we all made it out ok, and settled into a high altitude cruise. The Mirage tanked once, and the Phantoms were fine all the way to the target. We went in nose cold except for a single F-4, which detected nothing other than standard airliner traffic. We had one close call initially, an the Flanker peeled off to investigate, about 20 miles out he called tally ho and told us we'd panicked over a South African A340. We talked and said that we wouldn't investigate radar returns unless they were above a certain speed and/or on an intercept course. With that in mind, we had no problems. When we got there, we hit a small snag. We hadn't asked for a weather briefing, and it was cloudy. Two cloudy in fact to use our original high altitude bombing plan. However, we talked to Steve, and suggested that since the GBU-15s were tv guided, and we knew where the bridges were.

The F-111 flew a pattern, and released the bombs in the 'basket' as Steve put it, and then became very focused on making sure the things nailed the targets. The clouds were at 3000' AGL and that meant the Aardvark operator would have very little time to make course corrections when they went through the cloud ceiling. Our backup plan had the mirage circle low, and prepare to make a run at the bridges should the Aarvark miss. We were really tense, because it would really suck to miss now, we'd be short on ammo for the assault portion, and we weren't sure if 500lbs could take out a bridge. Turned out we were worried over nothing. The bridges were wood and metal rickety things. The first GBU-15 punched right through the first bridge, detonating just underneath it. The second GBU-15 missed by about 28 ft, and hit the river. The good thing though, is that missing by a few feet with a 2000lb bomb doesn't make much of a difference. The Mirage confirmed this as it completed its pass, both bridges were now mostly smoldering toothpicks, with pieces of them still raining down from the sky.

Now, shit started to hit the fan. We called the FFL, who said they were inbound, and gave us some coordinates. Since I was in the radiating Phantom, I flew with the Flanker towards the Antonov. The flanker hugged close, we were hoping to make the Phantoms radar return block out the Flanker's. We asked steve, and he said this was pretty smart, and told us that the Phantom RCS is almost 8x bigger than a Flankers. Anyway, we found the AN-12 on Radar below the cloud cover but the weird thing was it was orbiting. We told them again the bridges were down, and they acknowledged, but kept orbiting. At this point, we thought things were going well, until the Mirage pilot decided to dive down for another look. He flew another pass, and called up to us saying there were more than two dozen boats crossing the river with men aboard, “Like some sort of ghetto thrid world D-Day”, and there were small explosions from the village (we found out later this was mortar strikes). He was about to strafe the boats when the other Phantom pilot shouted about the ROE and he held off, and climbed out.

We relayed this new info to the FFL, and they asked us to take another look, but not to fire unless fired at. The F-4 decided to take a look, and began a descent. Now we had plotted the area beforehand and were flying a safe track relative to elevation, that gave us the shortest route but with the most visibility to the target area. We all thought that this was a really smart idea. The bad thing is that we forgot we'd already flown the path twice with the Mirage, and didn't realize how dangerous this is. The F-4 got down below the clouds and began making his run. Then, without much warning, his own IR detector went nuts, and the treetops below him exploded and a flurry of SAMs blasted out of the undergrowth on trails of acrid smoke like Medusa having a bad hair day. There were also tracer rounds blasting aruond everywhere, as a few Bofors opened up on the flight path. The pilot threw the f-4 into a hard climbing right (no burners, was relying on momentum) and his backseater was probably breaking the flare dispense switch. This stopped a lot of the SAMs (the guy was reading the missile book Steve gave him and found that if you can see the smoke trails in front of you, they probably don't have a lock, especially SA-7s and Redeyes. There were no stingers though, because he got away clean from the missiles. He did take a few Bofors hits, but nothing seemed affected as he made his way out of the area. He was fucking pissed though, because he hadn't had a chance to shoot back.

Other than confirming there was some serious anti-air down low on the south side of the river, we realized that we had no clue what the village or river looked like now. We told the FFL, and they finally turned to head towards the village, although a one legged turtle on diazepam would have been faster than the POS russian trash hauler they were in. They really did seem like they were taking their time. The other strike aircraft were staying high, and keeping an eye out for any missiles, but none appeared. As we approached, I began picking up a target, but it was very faint, very slow, and very low. I told the Flanker pilot, and he descended to check it out. Based on the position though, I figured it was setting up an orbit over the town, and the Flanker pilot agreed to keep his distance, since we knew there were man carried anti air in the area. The Flanker approached to about 10 miles, and then called out that it was a single engine plane, and had tracer rounds coming from it, firing into the village. The FFL was told, and they simply told us to kill it. The flanker pilot figured he wouldn't need to waste a missile, so went to guns, high power, and blasted towards the target, intending on a quick kill and speedy overflight. The first part went well, the plane never saw what hit it, and according to steve, the Flanker's internal gun ripped the little thing in half like a buzzsaw. The Flanker flashed past the village, dumping a few flares pre-emptively. Without a IR warning, we don't know if anything shot at him, but Steve said there were no tracer rounds. By this time, I was low, circling the slow moving Cub, and had just come back in line with the village, when two new targets popped up on my radar, about 3 miles behind the flanker! I was 14 miles away, and I didn't think, I just hit my burners and switched to sidewinders.

The targets firmed up, and I eased off the Burners, since I was still carrying a/g ordanance, and Steve told me going supersonic would be tough, and rough on the ordanance. I got tone just as I saw a flash from one of the targets, which I could now see was some sort of helicopter. I told the Flanker and he dumped more flares, and climbed hard. The missile followed the flare, and I got to use the phrase “Missile trashed”. My own sidewinder scored a direct hit, and the helicopter blasted to pieces. I got off a snapshot with my cannon at the other helicopter but I don't know if I connected, since I blew by too quickly. The backseater though called out that I had “Splashed” another one, and there were some impressive secondaries coming out of the jungle as we climbed out. We then all recieved a call from the FFL that they were landing and debarking, and to stand by for support missions. They had laser designators (we had asked earlier, but forgot about clouds) so are GBUs wouldn't be completely useless. The other F-4 had done a systems check in the meantime, and apparently, despite a smallish hole in his wing, there were no problems. Things were looking better, the bridges were down, we'd taken out what little air support these guys seemed to have, and with varied attack runs, the Bofors weren't posing much of a threat. Are flare supplies were another issue, since we did not know how long we would be needed to stay.

We began an orbit above the cloud layer about ten miles outside the village area, and the Flanker climbed and lit off it's radar, since it was the most potent, and decided it would simply scare off anyone who came for a look by targeting them with Fire control instead of basic search. The F-111 continued it's slow orbit at altitude. That was when we got our first fire mission call. There was a large mass of troops heading towards the Antonov and the FFL who were still getting organized. We were told to suppress them and the few technicals. The gave us a grid reference, and we found the street. The Mirage maneuvered, then dove for the deck, in a high speed pass. He roared in, heading down the street, and dropped one of his cluster bombs. The result was devastatingly glorious, as the submunitions ripped apart a good percentage of a village block. The FFL called in that the strike was successful, and the Mirage guy was ecstatic, because he was already climbing out, no hits taken. But this was short lived, since a call came in for another mission almost immediately. The FFL was advancing now, clearing pockets of resistance, but one set of insurgents had become nested in a building. The couldn't designate the target yet, but they told us to call 60 seconds out from the village and they would mark the target with smoke. I rolled in, with the other Phantom following 30 seconds behind.

We came in from the west, since the FFL were to the north, and we figured this way any strays would probably not hit them. We called, and then Steve put the smoke marker on the map, and I was able to make my turn towards it. I rippled off 2 GBUs in dumb fire mode, and a small part of me was thinking about the price of the laser systems. Still, I hit with one of them, the other hit too early and took out something (I found out what in the after action report). Just before passing over the building, I noticed it was white, and had a red cross on it. I don't know why, but I winced when Steve told me this, but there was nothing I could do. The other Phantom reported the hits, and then followed it up with a rocket attack on the structure. The village and area was in chaos, with tracers and fire in the streets everywhere. Lots of people and vehicles moving, but at our attack speeds, nothing we could really identify with certainty. We didn't get the warning of an IR, but Steve told us there were some straight smoke trails. RPGs he said, but you'd know in a jet, that it was pretty much an empty threat, and indicative of how poorly trained the OPFOR was. We peeled out dropping a flare every so often just in case, escaping back to the relative safety of the cloud cover.

The FFL called in, saying our strike was a success, and that they were pushing the enemy back, and had identified two temporary chokepoints, and a staging area. The would designate the chokepoints, and mark the staging area with smoke. We decided that putting one aircraft down below the cloud cover just focused the fire, and the Mirage, myself and the Phantom circled around for another low pass. We broke out of the cloud cover at speed, coming in low over the burning village and hellish firefight like avenging angels transporting the sword of Damocles. Both myself and the Phantom dumped two more GBU-15s at the chokepoint barricades/firebases, while the Mirage turned hard to line up with the smoke. The last second turn affected his aim, and while our GBUs nailed their targets, the cluster bomb went a bit wide. It took out part of the staging area, but from the resulting fireball, probably a gas station on a corner and a few shops/buildings around it. The French still called all three strikes a success. On our way out, the Phantom beside me couldn't evade yet another SA-7, and took a proximity hit. I called out that he was smoking quite badly, and he climbed out preparing to shut down the engine. As he climbed, Steve told him his ailerons were not very responsive, and that a lot of control surface was gone from one wing. We all climbed and told him to tank, and go home. The aardvark came down, and gave him a drink, before he turned for home. Then the FFL made another call, saying that the insurgents were being forced across the river, and that anything in the river was now a target. We lined back up, and prepared for a quick run, we knew that now the Bofors would be a threat again, along with the Sams.

We dropped below the darkening clouds, on what we expected would be our last run. The scene greeting us was awesome. Half the village appeared to be on fire, with thick black smoke roiling upwards. The river was again full of boats, but heading south, to the other shore. I switched to the rocket pods and just held down the trigger, sending rockets rippling out in a sustained salvo of destruction. Plumes of water, mud, wood and metal arced into the air as the rockets played their way up the river. I saw some tracers begin to make their way up, and felt a few bumps. I angled towards the largest stream headed towards me and dumped my remaining bomb payload before spewing flares and staying low, heading out of the area at speed. The Mirage simply flew down the river, gun pods blazing away and tearing through anything that got in the way. He evaded a few last SAMs and began a slow climb. Steve reported that my plane was fine, but that the mirage had lost it's air to air radar capability. The Flanker joined up wth us as we climbed, calling out visual damage reports. One of my engines was smoking more than usual, but not severely. We both had substansial cosmetic damage to the undersides of our craft, but other than that, nothing horrible. The FFL called in, saying that they could deal with the stragglers, and that we were cleared out of the area. I bit back a 'fuck you assholes' since I figured I'd save that until after I got my cheque. The remainder of the mission was uneventful, we all landed safely, the most severely wounded aircraft being the other Phantom.

Summary

• Mission Success
• - Air Kills -
  • Hugs: 1 Cessna 208 “Technical” Gunship w/M197 Gatling
  • Baron: 1 MD500w/Stinger, 1 Kaman KMAXw/Gsh-23 Cannon mount

• - Air Incidentals -
  • None

• - Ground Kills -
  • Sandman: 2xBridges
  • Biscuit: Entrenched Infantry (Hospital), Chokepoint
  • Scotch: 2x Infantry groups, 4x Technicals, 8 x Boats
  • Baron: Entrenched Infantry (Hospital), Chokepoint, 13x Boats, 1x Bofors

• - Ground Incidentals -
  • Scotch: Gas Station, 2 Shops, Market square, 7 cars, Churchfront, 2x Civilian Refugee boat
  • Baron: Hospital, 5x Civilian Refugee Boat
  • Biscuit: Hospital

• - Damage Taken -
  • Baron: Cosmetic airframe, Minor Engine
  • Scotch: Cosmetic airframe
  • Biscuit: Catastrophic Engine, Significant control surface.

“Aluminium Crow”

Briefing

• BlackFlag Internal Document

#100323

• Mission Briefing

“Aluminium Crow”

• Deployment

Kitona

• Pancake

Kitona

• Alternate

Luanda (Angola)

• AAR

None

• AWACS

Unavailable (Currently supporting Jaeger Flight)

• CSAR

None

• Contract Employer

Liberian Government

• Objective

Redeploy to Kitona Airfield. Intercept Moroccan Falcon 50 and escort it to Kitona.

• Background

We're not entirely clear on this one. We received advance payment from an account we backtracked to the Liberian government. They're trying to cover this one up, our intelligence section is working to find out more, but as of now we only have the mission parameters. A member of the Moroccan government is onboard the Falcon 50. We've acquired their flight plan, and figure they will pass close to the DRC coast at roughly 0300 local. However flightplan database investigations also noted that a formation of six Mirage F1s will be flying a ferry mission to Namibia and will be in the operational area. If we receive any further intel, we will datalink it to you immediately. This mission is a short notice tasking, and you will be compensated accordingly.

• HUMINT

Formation of Mirage F1s will be in the target area, Flightplan says they are armed.

• ELINT

Radio intercepts and triangulation have identified that an Osprey-55 patrol boat is cruising within roughly 250 miles of the flightplan's proposed track.

• SATINT

None

• Air Assets

Falcon 50, 6xDassault Mirage F1

• Surface Assets

Osprey-55 Gunboat

• Threat Assessment

Medium. Based on flightplan distance, the Mirage's will most likely be equipped with drop tanks, limiting their payload and air to air effectiveness. The Moroccan Armed Forces are adequately trained, but are by no means top tier. While the Osprey patrol boat poses no direct threat, it does present a relay station should the Falcon 50 broadcast an emergency transmission.

• ROE

Visual Contact unless fired upon.

Recap

So we ferried ourselves out to the Kitona airfield. We weren't sure what our basing facility would be like, so we loaded up with a variety of weapons. We arrived in Kitona uneventfully, although a bad roll for the Mirage pilot meant his GPS/NAV conked out mid flight, and he had to follow one of us to Kitona. On landing we found out that Kitona had halfway decent facilities. We talked about the mission in a ready shack near the flightline, as well as called the mercenary company for some more intel. We bought flight plan information, and the Flanker pilot did a bit of work figuring out time and distance. Based on where the Falcon was going to be.

The Vark pilot told us he was going to get the ground crew to take off the buddy tanks, and we agreed. Internally, the Vark pilot had a single AGM-84, as well as his M61 Cannon with a retarded amount of ammunition. Externally, the Vark was clean. The Flanker pilot loaded up with six Alamo missiles and six Archers. I chose to mount 4 AIM-7 Sparrow and 4 AIM-9. The other phantom had spent a bit more cash to acquire 2 AMRAAMs and 2 Sparrows, as well as the same AIM-9 loadout as me. The Mirage had four Magics, and 2 MICAs. Other than those, we were all 'clean' no drop tanks, no air to ground. We had asked Steve about C3, but he told us that an upgrade like that, while purchasable, would take time to install on the aircraft, since this was a short notice tasking we couldn't have it up and running yet. I also decided to take a skill/feat in 'Burner Bastard' allowing me to gain an extra unit of move in an accel phase if I wanted. With all that settled, we discussed our plan one more time, and headed for our planes.

The fighters departed first, rumbling into the night. We told Steve that we were circling the airfield, and joining up on the Flanker in formation. We then departed south, climbing to altitude. Twenty or so minutes later, the Vaark tore off the pavement, headed out over the Ocean, and settled in to a hard mode cruise 200ft over the surface, quickly punching through the sound barrier, on his way to one and a half mach. Meanwhile, we had turned north again, and were heading towards our calculated intercept point, all of our noses were cold, although the Flanker had his IR tracking system running. The Flanker was the lead aircraft ahead by twenty miles or so. The rest of us were formed up, trying to be as radio silent as possible.

Fourty miles out from his target, the Aardvark enabled the search radar in his aircraft, supplementing the terrain following one. Within 20 seconds he had a radar match on the patrol boat, and his FLIR confirmed it. Since he was moving at 20 miles a minute, it didn't take him long to cross the patrol boat, clearing it by 150ft, at close to mach 2, with full burners. Radio traffic on the Guard frequency spiked soon after, and we heard that the boat was in chaos, windows blown out from the shock of the Vaark passing by it. But that wasn't enough, so the Vaark made a turn (took a while at his speed) and came back for another pass. Although this time, he opened up with his cannon, in a supersonic strafing pass.

The gun pass had the desired effect. We got distress traffic about 15 seconds later, some half crazed person shouting in french that they were under attack by unknown aircraft. Steve said just below the crackle of the radio we could hear the aftershocks of the F-111s engines in the transmission. Our radar warning receivers started to go nuts, and we were all getting slammed by search radar. The Flanker however, had drifted further away from us, and was not getting hit by the tracking radar, but we radio'd him and told him where they were relative to us, and he changed course slightly, and soon called back to us that he had several IR targets on reheat angling down towards the patrol boat, heading for the deck.

The Aardvark pilot meanwhile, was making a beeline for Angola, at full military power, hugging the sea surface, and trusting in his speed advantage and being lost in the radar clutter to make a good escape. The Flanker pilot decided now was the time to let loose our secret weapon, and rattled all six AlamoETs off his rails, one every five seconds. The afterburning mirages were excellent targets, and since he was a good strata or two above them, the Alamos also had a kinematic advantage. But the biggest advantage is he was behind them, launching BVR heatseekers, so he (hoped) remained undetected.

They didn't notice for about 25 seconds, then they started dumping flares, lighting up the sky for miles. Didn't do much good, our Flanker pilot scored two immediate kills, one Alamo took out a Mirage instantly, another two slammed into the next unfortunate F1, and the final Alamo severely damaged a third Mirage, who's engine flamed out. The remaining two AA-10s lost track and fell into the ocean. The Mirages stopped their rapid descent, and began arcing back around to face this new threat to their rear. The Flanker, for his part, was turning hard away from them, and hitting full military burner, his threat reciever going wild, but no locks detected (Apparently the russians, for all their vaccum tubes, built one of the easiest to read and most accurate RWRs available today.) The remaining three Mirages were clearly now chasing the Flanker.

I'm guessing at this point you are wondering why the Mirages were not coming at us, despite all the radar hits we took. It was all part of a brilliant plan, the final piece of which we decided to now implement. Myself and Biscuit broke out from underneath the wing of the South African Airways A340-600 we had been flying with, and our burners fired up to max, probably scaring the daylights out of the cockpit crew who suddenly had two Phantoms shoot out from underneath their plane. When we were clear, Biscuit flipped on his search radar, and spotted the four Mirages, three climbing up towards the Flanker but now going away from us and the patrol boat. The fourth was moving much slower and was much lower. We figured this was the damaged one.

With the sniff complete, Biscuit shut down his radar, and we launched all our Sparrows, which were not the SA/RH variant, but the passive anti-radiation kind. However, one of mine faulted out and simply fell off the rail, the other three ignited fine. Biscuits Sparrows both fired well, and rocketed out into the cold night sky. Along the way another one of my sparrows shorted out (goddamn american piece of vietnam era shit), but four missiles still found their way to the targets. I scored a kill, with both of mine slamming into a Mirage, one scoring an impact hit on the radome (according to Stece). One of biscuits also decided to impact my Mirage, and just added to the utter destruction. The other one missed wide when they switched off their radars when the first missile hit.

It must have been clear to them that they were not getting the Flanker anytime soon, so both Mirages vectored back in towards us, but by the time they'd turned, we were in Sidewinder range. And then I paid for all the good luck. I'd cheaped out on AIM-9s, buying the lesser model. Which, I realized as I read the datasheet I'd had in front of me for the past two sessions, could not lock on from the front. And then I started getting hit by the radar again, and my IR detector started yelling at me.

Biscuit had no such problem, and rattled off two more missiles into the Mirage's heading our way. This forced them to evade, and they didn't get a shot off. Biscuit didn't score a hit though. I was popping flares like a son of a bitch, and went to full military, using the speed advantage to rocket out of range. Biscuit formed up. When the Mirage's began their final turn, our own Mirage lit off his search radar, as did the Flanker who was now coming back at them. The Mirages realized this was a lost cause (not knowing that the Mirage (Scotch) south of them was out of range, and the Flanker was bluffing, since he had no BVR left on his wings). They decided the safer choice was to bug out, turning away from both our planes and heading outbound on a North Eastern course. The flanker pilot then tracked the wounded Mirage, as Biscuit and I headed towards the incoming Falcon, which was turning towards land, but they weren't going to outpace us.

We pulled in behind them, and since we didn't try to communicate over the radio, we did it the old fashioned way. Biscuit fired a warning shot of cannon shells across their nose, then pulled ahead on burners. I pulled beside the Falcon, and flipped on my formation lights. They got the picture, and I told them to follow the Phantom in front with hand signals, they rocked their wings, and then followed Biscuit as I slipped away to join up with Scotch. Scotch and Hugs had done the same thing, cannon shot across the front of the wounded and smoking Mirage, and then pulled alongside. However, they waited there, until I formed up on the other side, before pulling ahead, as I slipped behind, so that if he took a cheap shot at Scotch, I'd ram a sidewinder up his ass.

Hugz peeled off and climbed, turning, keeping his Radar on to look out for threats for us. There weren't any, surprisingly, and we took the Mirage and Falcon back to Kitona. We arrived there, and circled the field with our gear down. The Flacon and Mirage took the hint, and landed, followed shortly after by us.

As we taxied in, we saw a black Cadillac on the tarmac, and two military Gaz trucks. There were a lot of ragtag looking assholes beside the trucks, and as the Falcon shut down, they stormed the plane. We weren't sure, but we saw them drag two people off the Falcon and shove them roughly into the Caddy. The car peeled off with the trucks in trail as we were shutting down. Scotch investigated the Falcon, and found both pilots and the purser shot dead inside.

The Mirage pilot got down, and Hugz went to see him, as he put it “Grinning like a motherfucker” with a flask of whiskey. The mirage pilot was a bit surprised in addition to being confused and pissed off. We called up the Merc outfit and told them we had a mirage. Turns out, we get bonus cash now for bringing back a damaged plane! Although, I have no clue what/who the Liberians took or why. Steve ended it there, saying we got a call from the Vark pilot who was down and safe in Angola, and that the Mirage pilot would be offered a merc job.

We spent more on intel this time, the Flanker pilot came up with the idea to pull the Mirages around the sky, and we planned the airliner overflights in the area to mask our advance. Steve loved the initiative and had about six civilian airliners in the air during the game.

Summary

• Mission Success.

• - Air kills -
  • Hugs: 2.5 Mirage F1
  • Baron: 1 Mirage F1
  • Biscuit: .5 Mirage F1

• - Air Incidentals -
  • None

• - Surface -
  • Sandman: Damaged (Combat ineffective) Osprey 55

• - Surface Incidentals -
  • none

“Steel Crow”

Briefing

• BlackFlag Internal Document

#100324

• Mission Briefing

“Steel Crow”

• Deployment

Kitona

• Pancake

Kitona

• Alternate

Luanda (Angola)

• AAR

None

• AWACS

Unavailable (Currently supporting Jaeger Flight)

• CSAR

MI-24 Hind “Beartrap Flight” if required, no cost.

• Contract Employer

Liberian Government

• Objective

Protect the Liberian Convoy (Three Trucks, one Cadillac)

• Background

The Liberian situation just got more complicated. Those bastards didn't go after some low-level minister, the crown prince of Morocco was on that flight. The prince's personal guards were found this morning, both tortured and with the backs of their heads caved in, amongst other things. The King of Morocco is furious, and is putting serious pressure on local governments around here to find and rescue his son. For their part the Liberians haven't exactly been subtle so far, their convoy was identified at the border and to make matters worse, once that happened they shot their way into the Congo. Currently, they are holed up in a small warehouse in Pointe Noire. Their ultimate destination, as you can see from the satellite overflight, is the Bonne Aventure, a freighter flying under a Liberian flag. The Republic of Congo isn't stupid, and they've already impounded the ship. Partly due to the Moroccan pressure, but primarily from the fact they have 9 dead border guards on their hands, the Congo has been fortifying the only approach to the ship, and has increased searches and patrols in Pointe Noire. The Liberians are getting restless, and have called on us to clear a path for them to the ship. Normally we'd decline due to the circumstances, however they have threatened to reveal our original contract to the Moroccans. We will make them pay for this blackmail, but at present they have our nuts in a vice. You will have no radio contact with the convoy, when you arrive on scene they will begin making their way to the boat. Due to the rushed nature of this operation we have not yet had time to stock Kitona with weaponry, and have therefor tasked our two C-27Js to support you, however all munitions purchased will have an added fee. This mission is a short notice tasking, and you will be compensated accordingly.

• HUMINT

The Congo troops may not be superbly trained, but they are not green. The Liberians haven't given us much, as usual, just a map with a line drawn on it, so we're guessing that's their route. Not very subtle either, just the fastest route to the boat. Because the Bonne Aventure is currently impounded, it is imperative that at least two of the three Liberian troop trucks survive.

• ELINT

Radio intercepts have picked up increased military traffic from the Congo, the Liberians expect to make a high speed dash, but they're going to have a tough drive. Several outlying garrisons have been brought in overnight, including some armour assets.

• SATINT

Unavailable

• Air Assets

None

• Surface Assets

Unknown number of MBTs, IFVs and Anti-Air Guns.

• Threat Assessment

Medium. While the threat to your own aircraft is considered minimal, the light nature of the convoy is vulnerable to pretty much everything that the Congolese can throw at it.

• ROE

Any threat to either the Liberian convoy or yourself is a valid target.

Recap

So we weren't sure about how to loadout our aircraft. I took two HARM missiles, since I had some left in my personal inventory (no charge!). I put on two SUU-23 Pods, two rocket pods, and four BLU-10s, and two sidewinders. Biscuit loaded up pretty much the same, but no HARMS, four rocket pods. Scotch had two ADEN pods, Two Magics, Two rocket pods, and two Brimsotnes. The F-111 had it's internal gun, 8 CBU-87s, 4x AGM-65As. Hugs put on two Alamos, kept 2 Archers, and then added 4 SPPU-22 Gunpods and Two Fab-500s. We figured that between us, we could deal with threats as they came. We took off, and headed for the target area, all of us limited in speed due to our loadouts.

We approached at high altitude, well, the Flanker and F-111 did, using their IR pods to find enemy locations ahead of time. The rest of us loitered about 10 miles away, getting target info, and coming up with a by the seat of the pants style plan. From the air, they had spotted two troop concentrations, a tank, and three IFVs, as well as a few jeeps. We turned in, as the F-111 began its run, Hugs staying high to provide Air Cover as well as an eye on things on the ground. He called out no ground based or air based tracking radar, which was a relief. One less thing to worry about. Sandman started off by dropping four Mavericks during his descent, one for each vehicle he had spotted initially. They rocketed down, and speared every single target he had pointed them at. Four cans, popped in one salvo, we were ecstatic. Then Hugs called, telling us the explosions had obviously been heard, the Liberians were beginning their run. He counted three trucks, a car, and 4 motorcycles leaving the staging area, heading north as initially planned. Sandman pulled out of his dive, roaring out towards the ocean, spotting nothing but the burning vehicles. So far, so good.

Then we get a call from our eye in the sky, apparently he's got tags on two police cars moving at speed through the urban area, apparently moving towards the liberians, who, in their bid to escape, have decided to shoot at everything on their way, with small arms fire, and the M2 .50 they have on a pintle mount on two of the trucks. So much for them sneaking around. Biscuit and I start talking, do we really want to shoot up police cars? Biscuit, not missing a beat, “Well, we are speeding already, what's another ticket? Guns Hot.” He lined up on one street, and did a low level strafe with a quick burst from his internal cannon, scoring a kill on one of the cars. I came in behind, but the other police car turned off the street and drove through a small shack, fence, lawn, so I didn't have a safe shot. We both roared low over the city, and we got a spot check. I found a BRDM leaving a garage, headed to intercept the Liberian convoy, but we zipped by before we had a shot. We were out over the bay, and began our turn to come back. The Mirage flew a route to take him down the planned route the convoy was taking, and didn't spot anything on his pass. He was out of position on the BRDM as well, and began his turn around in the bay.

At this point, it seemed pretty simple, and then it went to shit. Out of nowhere, four HMMVS drove out of garages attached to civvie houses, and the north block surrounding the road leading out of the village erupted with small arms fire and a few RPGs. The Liberian convoy wasn't there yet, but a motorcyle was killed in the initial fire. The only aircraft in position was the F-111, pushing towards the area hard. The HMMVWs moved to the main road, and formed a roadblock. The Vark rushed over the air, and left behind the only effective ordanance he could, two cluster bombs. The effect was pretty dramatic, it took out a quarter of the block and suppressed all the fire. As the smoke cleared, Hugs called down to say that the Hummers were toast, except for one that hadn't made it to the target area yet, and had now diverted, heading west across the open plain at speed. The Liberians roared through the carnage, as Biscuit and myself came in from the North. I lined up with the BRDM, and took it out with a rocket salvo, which also nailed an abandoned bus (there seemed to be a lot of people running away from all this, as well as cars driving fast in the opposite direction. Biscuit put his rounds off target with the police car, chewing through a lawn and a house. The police car got the hint, and stopped, the officers jumping out and running for their lives. We finished our run, and began to make our turn south of the area.

The Mirage did a slower pass, and called out target hits, then turned west to engage the departing HMMVW. Turned out it was just in time, since he saw a flash, and something streaked out towards the convoy. Scotch nailed the HMMVW but spent a lot of ammo from his internal gun doing it. The missile (A TOW) lost command input, and shot in between the cadillac and the truck following, trailing it's wire. It detonated on the side of poorly (or fortuitously) place water pumping station. The Liberians were now in the open, just making the turn onto the port access road. Hugs began to get radar hits on something low and fast, but it was sporadic, about five miles east. Scotch turned to investigate as both Biscuit and I began to loiter south, waiting for a call to come in. We were joined by Sandman shortly.

Scotch flipped on his air to air, and picked up the target, and we found out why it was moving so 'fast' it was two different targets, heading towards the convoy, spaced out, and so low the radar in the Flanker was only getting sporadic hits, and treating them as a single target. The Mirage blasted by the targets, calling out to us that they were helicopters, unknown type. I made the turn to investigate, and scotch also turned, switching to his magics. I made my pass first, but didn't get a good lock with my sidewinders, so I went guns, and opened up in a long burst, which reached out and tore through the (relatively) stationary MD-500, which exploded in a fireball before crashing into the ground beside the highway/main road. Scotch came in, and loosed his two magics (better missiles than my shitty sidewinders) at the other helicopter, also scoring hits, blowing the MI-8 gunship out of the air. The downside was, he shot down an MI-8 over the main road, which had lots of cars stopped on it to look at the crashed MD500, so when the gunship went down, it went down into a traffic jam, and it's onboard ATGMs and air to Air point defense missiles went off. Scotch wasn't very happy when Hugs told him that, we hadn't been paying attention to what they were flying over, and this kind of sucked big time. Then, Sandman called out that over the bay there was a small flottilla of about four small boats heading across the bay, in the direction of the Bonne Aventure.

Sandy made a hard turn towards the bay, which overstressed his wing mounts, and rendered his Mavericks unusable, so he dumped them, which freed him speed wise, and went to full burner towards the bay, about 400ft off the deck he said. He passed over the Liberians like that as well, who were now about halfway between the urban area and the dockyards. Sandy, unsure of the best method, asked steve about submunitions, then loosed another two bombs. He passed over the area, and even though he was far south of the position, Biscuit still called out that their was a massive fountain of ocean thrown up from the strike, destroying three boats, and sending the fourth a good 200 ft into the air, and snapping it like a twig. Sandman began to slow and turn, setting up a small racetrack north. Scotch was now flying a line towards the industrial port, and spotted a small roadblock. He was already on rocket pods, so he fired them off, punching a massive hole in the guard house, roadblock, and about half of a nearby warehouse and several train cars filled with diesel, which ignited, sending a plume of black smoke into the air. Pretty much most of the entrance to the port was destroyed or on fire as Scotch passed over it.

Biscuit turned towards the inferno, prepping his rocket pods for any further roadblocks. He didn't find any on his pass, but he did take cannon hits from something, punching through his engine, setting it on fire. I was already inbound, and had seen the tracers, so steve put down the ZSU marker in between the warehouses, and said that I could see a lot of troops in the area, debarking from trucks. I made my pass, emptying my rockets (no HARM lock) into the vicinity. I'm not proud of that, since I wasn't very accurate, I took out the ZSU, but nailed more of the train, both warehouses on either side, and the explosions from all that and the rockets took out the trucks and infantry, or at least, I doubted they'd survive down there.

Biscuit shut down his engine and Hugs called down to say that he was still smoking, but no fire anymore. Biscuit began a climb and we agreed that unless it was really needed, Biscuit was out of the fight. We bit the bullet (and our pride) and called for Beartrap, just in case he had to punch out, figuring it was better to have them in theatre for a quick pickup. Scotch had circled around, as the Liberians were just arriving at the port. They had slowed, making their way into the compound, when Sandman called out that two HMMVS had just emerged south of the Liberian position by about half a click, and were headed north. They had come out of a warehouse in the south. Scotch was already in position, so he lined up heading towards the Hummers. He decided on a gun pass, since they were travelling one after another, heading straight at him up the road. Steve told him as he approached that the second Hummer looked slightly odd, and two flashes could be seen from it. Scotch continued on his approach, lining them up, trying to limit collateral damage.

That was when steve told Scotch “You see twin smoke trails now, dead ahead, and two more flashes” Scotch broke off his run and tried to turn hard, and Steve passed around a book as we were all looking intently at the Hummer. Turns out there is a variant called an Avenger. Anyway, Scotch tried hard, but took it up the tailpipe, ripping his F1s engine to threads. Steve hit his remote and the stereo started blasting warning horns and sirens and shit, and I fuck you not Scotch's face was white and shouting EJECT EJECT EJECT while he quickly rolled the die. We all held our breath's as we saw the flaming wreckage of the mirage tumbling down towards the southwest edge of the industial zone.

Steve told Biscuit, since he was closest and climbing “Canopy just blew, seats out!” and we're all wondering “did he make it” and then Steve says “CHUTE, you see a Chute!” We begin a quick radio call “who has distance anti-tank guided munitions” and realize that no one has any left, the two brimstones on the crashing mirage were the remaining ones. The mirage arced slowly left and crashed into a warehouse, which promptly exploded. Then, on the radio, we heard Scotch who had been passed a note by Steve, calling us on freq from his rescue radio “ICE THOSE FUCKERS”. Biscuit, who was in the best position (high), asked Steve something, then did exactly the opposite of what Scotch wanted, dumping his four BLU-10s. It took a turn, but the hit, not on target, but close enough. Biscuit, the one engined Phantom, with airframe damage, napalmed about one sixth of the port, having checked to see where Scotch was relative to his aim point. The Hummers did not survive, nor did much of anything else. The Liberians were through the gate, heading north, and approaching the spot I had rocketed. The southern portion of the port was on fire, and black smoke was filling the sky there.

Sandman started reporting movement in the Northern part of the port, and several warehouses now had a few hummers and a lot of Infantry moving out from them, as well as two BMP-2s. We had the quickest discussion. We're down a plane and half, there's unknown elements down there, are intel is crap, and the Liberians are stupid enough to keep trucking since they think we are some sort of Guardian angels. And we agreed, the mission had gone to shit, no more trying to avoid casualties. I formed up behind Sandman, and we began a run, passing over the Liberians. When we were clear, Sandman began triggering his remaining cluster munitions, dumping them in a line, saturating the north roadway with submunitions, buildings, vehicles, train cars, everything and anything caught in the rolling wave of destruction was going up in flames. I followed thirty seconds later, making a long gun pass into the devestation, expending all the M61 ammo in the pods in one pass. The Liberians continued north, the ship now in sight, when the final attack occurred. The first truck detonated on the road, obscured by dirty smoke and dust. The convoy ground to a halt.

Another one of the trucks ventured forward, then troops debarked. They marched forward, past the burning truck. I was circling, and saw some puffs, and the infantry were gone. Fuck. The others ran back to the convoy. It took us a second, but Sandy said “What if it's mined?”

We looked at each other in silence. We hadn't thought of this... And we had just dumped all our bombs, my rocket pods were empty, and gun passes weren't going to help. And then Hugs, looked down at his sheet, and back at us. He told us to run a gun line in front of the Liberians, and angled in at high altitude, moving slow. We did, and the Liberians backed up slightly, since we were running really close to them on our pass. Hugs flew over, and dropped his two iron bombs we had forgotten about, sending 1000lbs worth of russian explosive into the minefield area. The explosion of his weapons was highlighted by all the mines detonating in a flurry of secondaries. The trucks and convoy began to move, heading towards the boat, through the still burning debris and craters. And then steve threw his last curveball. A single lone RPG on the boat, in addition to the soldiers stationed there. Steve did a roll in front of us to hit the truck. Needed a 18+ to hit he said. Rolled 20. Truck exploded in horrendous death. We were devestated.

And then Scotch chimed in over the radio chatter. “Just support the g'damn 'astards in their assault on the boat” Steve nodded, “Sure, the limit on truck kills was to ensure enough soldiers could assault it. I'm fine with this.” We we're back in the game, and hugs decided to be the Hero of The Night, pulling a ridiculous turn (we envied how fast he can turn, since we've been stuck in our iron pigs) and came in at the ship head on, as the Liberians were debarking from the remaining truck, taking heavy fire. And then Hugs plane exploded. Not from Damage, but he held down the triggers on his four gun pods and main gun, putting tremendous amounts of lead on target. The entire front of the bridge on the ship was blasted, glass and shrapnel blown everywhere, anyone unfortunate enough to be on the deck was converted to bloody mush. I followed with my guns, and Sandy observed from altitude. The liberians ran up the plank as we loitered, circling the boat. About two minutes later we saw water churn at the back of the boat, and they pulled out of port. To the south, the CSAR Hind arrived, and with a quick operation, extracted a rather watered down Scotch from the Atlantic. We all headed back to base as the Liberians pulled out of the port, extremely happy to all be alive, royally pissed at how the mission had gone, and asking Steve when we could go to Liberia.

Summary

Mission Success.

• Air Kills
  • Scotch: 1 MI-8 Hip Gunship
  • Baron: 1 MD500 Gunship

• - Air Incidentals -
  • None

• Ground Kills
  • Sandman: T55, 5BMP, 4 Harbour gunships, 3 Hummers
  • Biscuit: Hummer, Avenger
  • Scotch: Hummer, Guardhouse, Roadblock
  • Baron: BRDM, ZSU, 1 Infantry Squad
  • Hugs: Minefield, 2 Infantry Squad

• - Ground Incidentals -
  • Sandman: 7 Houses, 18 Warehouses, 12 civilians, 86 dockworkers
  • Scotch: 9 cars, 4 train cars, warehouse, 23 Civilians, 7 dockworkers
  • Baron: Bus, 2 Warehouses, 3 Civilians, Police Car, 32 dockworkers
  • Biscuit: House, Lawn Gnome, 4 warehouses, 2 civilians, 52 dockworkers
  • Hugs: 6 Dockworkers

• Damage Taken
  • Scotch: Destroyed, Ejected Safely
  • Biscuit: Catastrophic Engine Fire, Significant Airframe, Landed Safe

Spinoff Writefaggotry

Mission 2

Jean Claude in St. Claire by NF

Jean Claud had been living in the village of St. Claire for a few months, reporting on the increasingly unstable situation. He had heard word that the rebels were going to make a push, but hadn't expected them to move on this scale. As the mortars began to land he ran to the home of the family that had been hosting him in his time here. The roof was partially collapsed, Kanna, the father, was staring at a crater with parts of his wife in it. Jean Claud arrived in time to scoop up the family's two girls, 10 and 11, before they got a good view of the carnage.

"Kanna, we need to go NOW!" nothing "Kanna, your Daughters!" his grasp of the local dialect was rusty, but it shook the large man loose of his grief. Jean Claud handed him the older of the two girls, careful to cover her eyes. Kanna spoke, "To the boats, quickly."

They rushed from the still smoldering house. Jean Claud fumbled with his camera, taking shots as they ran. they hugged the alleys, waited for a few tense seconds when a technical swerved past, spraying machinegun fire into houses at random, and broke for it when it looked like the vehicle wasn't circling back.

Jean Claud heard a distant thump and turned, a pillar of flame was rising from the hospital that Doctors Without Borders had set up no more than a year ago. He snapped a photo of the acrid column and kept running. They cut out the side of the village, he swore, /swore/ he say aircraft overhead. The rebels didn't have this kind of advantage that he knew of, what the hell was going on? There was a force pushing into the village from behind them, apparently attacking the rebels. He could have sworn he heard distinctly clipped mother French.

They ran for the docks, anyone who had made it out of the village were now piling into the boats that had moments before disgorged a horde of killers into their homes. The boat was full to capacity, over flowing. He lost Kanna in the jumble. He clasped tightly to the man's daughter, Mary was her name, holding her close as the boat pulled away.

He turned back to the village, still snapping photos, and then pulled his satellite phone from a bulky thigh pouch. The jets were still strafing, multiple blooms of fire erupted from the heart of the town, he thought he saw the church go up.

He got the phone on and running, nervous fingers misdialing the home office twice. He wasn't getting a connection, the flimsy sheet metal covering of the boat was messing up his antenna, he leaned out the side for a better connection.

He got dial tone as a rocket scored a direct hit on the boat in front of him, turning it into a red hued fireball with a potpourri of limbs decorating the fringes, plopping into the water with sickening plumps.

He heard the receiver on the other end pick up when a cannon round severed his arm at the shoulder. The phone and the arm dropped into the river, hand clutching the shorted electronics all the way to the bottom. Jean had enough time to turn and throw himself over Mary, to shield her eyes and block out the screams of explosive shells disintegrating everyone around her, before he bled out.

Doctors Without Lifesigns by sukhoi

Pierre Desrochers sipped the cool water from the bottle, looking out the window at the scene on the street. A few people wandered between the dilapidated buildings, eyes low, feet shuffling across the dirt streets of the town. The air hung heavy in the late afternoon, the constant humidity clinging to every surface. Every breath in this hot humid air was laborious, it was like drowning in sickening dampness. Pierre looked up at the dark clouds obscuring the sky, but refusing to give up their cargo of rainfall. He put the bottle down, and began to put on his shirt and medical coat, and feeling them immediately cling to his sweat covered skin. 'This place really is the definition of hell,' he thought as he tossed a weathered copy of the King James into his backpack, 'Everyone is suffering and many die daily. It's intolerably hot, there is no reprieve, for water does not quench and sweat does not cool.'

Pierre knew that in addition to simply the environmental conditions was the added threat of political instability. Not a day went by that he didn't see a villager come in with horrific wounds. Bullet wounds were actually the easiest to deal with, they either died quickly, or a simple surgery and with luck, a slow recovery. No, it was the knife wounds. Some of the bandits, calling themselves patriots, found the most creative ways to torture and mutilate the human body. The worst were the “reprisals”, where a barely conscious patient would stagger into what passed for a hospital, blood pouring from several torn wounds, in which feces and dirt had been spread. If they didn't die from bleeding out, the infection almost inevitably took them. Pierre winced, and gripped the sides of his sink, trying to block out the sight of the young boy. In a daze, he grabbed a tablet of Ativan out of the bottle, and with shaking hands placed it under his tongue. He closed his eyes, and waited, waited for the images to disappear. Slowly a feeling of warmth suffused his muscles, and he opened his eyes, taking in his reflection in the mirror. He hadn't shaved in days, his coat was stained yellow with sweat and some congealed blood was partially smeared over the Médicins sans Frontières logo. His perpetually clammy skin, his hair matted against his scalp and his eyes staring back at him, bloodshot and tinged a light yellowish hue, signs of yet another third world parasitic infection.

A noise, a shallow thump from outside made Pierre turn slowly towards the window, just in time to see on oncoming shockwave race across the ground, tossing dirt off the street and shaking dust loose from buildings. The sharp clap of an explosion followed close behind, echoing down the streets. Pierre held his shirt up over his mouth to keep the dust slowly falling from the rafters out of his mouth, and headed out onto the street to get a better look.

He staggered out of the apartment block in time to see a dark shape dart past the river, followed by the unmistakable roar of a jet engine. Pierre's mind struggled to comprehend the information his senses were sending him. There was a large plume of smoke rising from near the river, close to where Pierre knew the main road bridge was. Several people were now in the street, looking at the rising column of smoke, some rushing towards it, others running back to their houses. Pierre began to see people stumbling out of the woods, shellshocked. Most of them were injured, some dragging others away from the site of the bombing, screaming and yelling for help. A slight whistling sound tugged at Pierre's mind, trying to worm it's way past the other thoughts rushing through his head. He suddenly tensed, then threw himself to the ground, realizing at the last second what the noise was. A nearby shanty took the shell, it's tin walls seeming to expand outwards as the mortar charge detonated inside, before giving into the pressure and collapsing, the roof crashing down into the debris and smoke. Pierre pushed off the rusty brown dirt that formed the street, and stumbled back into his dwelling long enough to grab his backpack, before rushing back out onto the street as more mortar shells began to fall. There was nothing he could do for these people right now, he had to get to where he was of use. In a daze, he focused on the white two story hospital at the end of the road, and sprinted, as small muted explosions began to wash over the city in a deadly rain of fire and shrapnel.

Pierre rushed into the Hospital, muffled explosions following. It took his eyes several seconds to adjust to the dim light inside the building, they were running on the generator again it seemed. A hit close to the Hospital shook the building, knocking what few pictures there were off the walls, glass shattering on the dusty tile floor. A terrified nurse ran up to Pierre, her face white, the muscles of her face strained taught trying to hide her fear from the patients that were in the reception. “Mon dieu, Doctor, what's happening out there?” Pierre grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, and trying to keep his voice calm, intoned “I'm not sure, someone's shooting at the village. Get the surgery prepped, break out the emergency supplies, and prepare to commence triage with the other nurses.” Pierre knew that these few early moments were critical, before the flood of wounded began to make their way through the doors, every second preparing for them was essential. He grabbed a bottle of nearby anti-septic and began to clean his hands, heading towards the trauma room. As he walked, a corner of his mind noticed that his hands were shaking again. Just as he entered the room, the sharp crack of gunshots in the distance began to make their way through the village. Pierre stopped in his tracks, hearing the shouts and screams begin outside the hospital, as automatic weapons fire erupted in the village. 'So, it's finally happening,' he thought as he approached the dispensary, 'the rebels are making a push, no matter the cost.'

The curtain at the far end of the trauma ward was thrown open, and two men rushed in, carrying a third, bloodied and screaming in pain on makeshift stretcher made of tin. “Put him down there” Pierre shouted as he rushed to the man's side, seeing gaping tear of flesh along the man's leg. It was a gunshot wound, and a few quick probes with his fingers quickly confirmed that the bullet had struck the man's tibia, shattering the bone in multiple places. Pierre quickly cleaned the wound, and applied a rough field bandage to staunch the man's bleeding. He turned to one of the men standing over the victim and shouted “Stop being useless, hold this here, like this, keep the pressure on, and you!” he turned to the other, “stop taking up space and get out of here now, this is for the wounded only!” More wounded were filtering in now, the one's who could be saved Pierre noted. From the sounds emanating from the hallway, the screams and shouts of pain, the nurses were doing their job, choosing who would live and who would die. The gunshots outside were getting closer, clearer, as was the shouting. The hospital shook and the lights dimmed slightly as another jet roared over, its engines temporarily drowning out all the chaos with their howl.

Pierre rushed to the window, and saw the aircraft in the distance, as tracers from the ground reached up, streams of brilliant staggered orange fire, seeking to swat the offending target out of the sky. He wasn't sure if the plane took a hit or not, because the pilot pitched the aircraft up, rocketing it quickly into the clouds and out of sight. It was then that the scene on the streets hit Pierre. The small garrison of DRC troops had taken a direct hit, and whatever remained was being shot at by bands of rebel soldiers. They were running down the streets, firing at whoever moved, firing into the air, shouting and yelling as they went. Ramshackle trucks with guns crudely mounted to their beds sped down the dusty streets, firing wildly. Most of the rebels had that crazed look indicative of paya, a mixture of cocaine and gunpowder that they snorted to get high before going into battle. They took it to make them feel invincible.

Desrochers saw a young girl on the street, and was about to shout a warning when a rebel suddenly grabbed her, and pulled her into an alley between two shanty huts. Without thinking, Pierre vaulted over the railing into the street, coming up in a hunched over sprint. He held his hands over his head, knowing even as he did so, that it was a pointless exercise should one of the bullets whizzing past him find its target. He rushed into the alley, quickly spotting the girl and her assailant, who was standing over her torn dress as she weeped into the dirt of the alley. With two quick steps he arrived behind the coked out warrior, and swung his left fist hard into the side of the man's neck. The sharp blow dropped the bastard, stunned by the shocking trauma to both his jugular and spinal cord. Without waiting, Pierre kicked the man's gun away, and dropped his knee into the man's throat, the barest crack signifying that the windpipe and trachea had been crushed. Pierre turned to see the girl pick herself up and begin running away, out the opposite end of the sheltered alley, when suddenly, her body was ripped apart by rifle rounds, collapsing bloodily to the ground in a grotesque parody of a ragdoll. Pierre's vision swam as the scene replayed itself in his mind, the chaos, shouts and gunfire all dulling to a drone as his mind continued to see the bullets impacting the helpless child. His body began to shake, and he collapsed on his side beside the dying rebel, trying to force the image out of his mind, trying to convince himself this madness wasn't real.

The ground around Pierre shook, and a wave of heat rushed down the alley, sending a blast of hot air peppered with dust and debris into the doctor's face. The superheated air ripped at his exposed skin, and tore the last of the air from his lungs. A terrifying rippling crack pounded at Pierre's eardrums, sending waves of pain deep into his skull, the sound seeming to physically impact his already tortured body. The agony lasted for what seemed to last for ages, but finally mercifully receded, and Pierre propped himself up on an elbow. Blinking as his head continued to reel from the sensory assault, he tried to focus on his surroundings. His vision swam, distorting the shapes and angles of the alley, and his ears rang, with only the vaguest sounds of gunfire making their way into his reality. Unsteadily, Pierre began to crawl towards the opposite end of the alley, smelling oily smoke and cordite as he pressed forward. Arriving at the exit of the alley, he collapsed into a sitting position with his back to the concrete wall of a building. The scene that greeted his eyes was nightmarish, a gruesome tableau of bloodied and mangled corpses mixed in with the odd whimpering casualty. At the far end of the main road Pierre could see a large white transport plane with the characteristic black stencil UN prominently displayed on the tail. Soldiers were dismounting quickly from the plane, as the sound of jets racing overhead again overwhelmed the shouts and gunfire that still raged throughout the village. Turning back to the street, Pierre's eyes saw several destroyed vehicles with flames raging inside them. One had a body half out the window, the crackling flames hissing and popping as they devoured the body's oils, the skin on the face slowly burning away, revealing the macabre outline of the blackening skull underneath.

Pierre turned back, something in the back of his mind making him look at the UN plane again. Something didn't fit, the men clambering out were not wearing the characteristic blue helmets or berets of a UN force, nor were they comporting themselves like a peacekeeping force. As he continued to watch, he saw them splitting up, heading into the alleys and backstreets in groups of two or four, moving like highly trained assault troops. New sounds began to emerge from the village, short bursts of automatic rifle fire, short yells of surprise cut off by a quick crack and then silence. Something flashed at the corner of Pierre's vision, and he saw a family sprinting from their hiding place across the street. The mother was shouting as the father carried one of his daughters who was bleeding, and two little boys followed as they all rushed for the relative safety of a house or shop. One of the boys stopped suddenly, and reached down to pick something up off the street. As another aircraft blazed over the town at speed, Pierre realized with a start what had caused the destruction in the street. His eyes widened in fear and he began to shout but it was too late. The unexploded submunition from the air dropped cluster bomb, jarred by the boy's grabbing of it, detonated with a sickly soft pop, it's fragmentation covering sending razor sharp shrapnel tearing through the boy, quickly converting the vast majority of him to a bloody pulp where he stood. The family kept running, and Pierre realized that none of them had seen what had happened, none of them knew they had just had a portion of their lives brutally torn from them. He rolled over onto his side, and retched into the rust coloured dirt of the alley.

Pierre began to shake, small uncontrollable spasms that seeked to contort his body. Desperately he thrust his hand into his pocket, seeking the bottle of Ativan. He pulled it out and unscrewed the cap, but in trying to pour out a tablet, his shaking hands spilt them onto the ground. Pierre needed the relief, and pawed at the dirt covered alley for them as the sickly sweet smell of spent powder and burning gasoline surrounded him. His outstretched hand finally found one of the tablets, and he quickly jammed it under his tongue, closing his eyes and waiting for the drug to take effect. Even with his eyes closed, Pierre couldn't block out the battle continuing to rage around him, the sounds and smells just intensified when he couldn't see. He heard shouts and footsteps, sporadic gunfire and cries of pain, the distant thump of small explosions. Sharp cracks quickly drew Pierre out of his drug induced stupor, as men in uniform rushed past him, firing at some unseen enemy. He started to get up, but was roughly pushed back into the dirt by another man carrying a rifle, who seemed to be shouting at him. Pierre shook his head, and pushed back the sounds of battle to hear the man telling him to stay down. The man was wearing the uniform of France but looked Hispanic. The man turned and fired down the alley, the piercing gunshots echoing off the concrete and tin walls and making Pierre's head feel like it was being split open from the inside. Through the dust and smoke, the patch on the man's sleeve caught Pierre's eye, a flaming fleur de lis, and the words Légion étrangère underneath it. The legion, they were here to stop the madness, and for a moment, Pierre felt a glimmer of hope as he sat in the alley, Legionnaires firing heavily at the building across the street.

As Pierre covered his ringing ears against the oppressive sound of high powered rifles, he realized with a creeping dread that they were firing at the hospital. Looking over the legionnaires, he saw armed militants on the balconies and in the windows of the hospital, and a ruined technical out front. The militants had commandeered the building at some point, and were now firing wildly at the Legion troops surrounding the edifice. One of the many legionnaires in the alley was talking hurriedly into a radio, while simultaneously giving hand instructions to the trooper beside him. The trooper nodded a quick agreement, then ran past Pierre before clambering up the wall of one of the buildings that lined the alleyway. Pierre heard and felt the troopers boots pounding on the tin roof overhead, and looked back towards the hospital where the firing had died down, apparently they were trying to negotiate with the militants holding the patients and doctors hostage. One of the rebels slowly emerged from the entrance, holding a white coated doctor in front of him as a human shield. The militant had his AK pressed up under the chin of the doctor, and as Pierre's vision cleared, he saw through the smoke that it was Rémi, a young doctor on her first tour. The legionnaires were shouting at the militant to drop his weapon, the militant was shouting something about freedom, and Rémi was crying, face white and etched with fear.

The confrontation continued to play itself out in the street, with both sides shouting and yelling at each other, weapons raised. Pierre got to his feet unsteadily, and added his voice to the multitudes, shouting “Rémi, restez calme, it will all be ok!” Her head turned, looking for the familiar voice amidst the shouts and chaos. “Ici Rémi! Over here” shouted Pierre, waving his hands, seeing her look towards him, tears streaming down her face. In the distance, Pierre heard a sound like rolling thunder and as he turned to look in the direction of the noise the legionnaires around him crouched down behind whatever cover they could find in the alley. Pierre heard the strained voice of Rémi just as he spotted the twin soot trails of the jet fighters arcing towards the hospital, “Pierre! Aide-moi! Au nom de dieu aide moi Pierre!”

They came in fast and low, the pressure wave from their wings and engines tearing tin sheets and canvas roofing from houses, like vortexes of destruction dragged behind the racing jets. Pierre saw small shapes drop from their wings, and in an instant both aircraft had passed over the hospital, twin shadows of blurred steel and fire ripping across the sky. A split second later the sound of their engines slammed into the ground, a terrifying banshee like scream, the fires from their reheat systems glowing like some demonic presence as the aircraft angled up away from the town, easily dodging the rocket trails some of the rebels sent their way. Ignoring his better judgement, Pierre flung himself out of the alley, trying to reach Remi, who's eyes were still locked in shock on the departing fighters. The milita fighter saw Remi, and began to swing his gun towards the charging doctor when the world turned into a maelstrom of fire and fury. Pierre saw Rémi and her captor outlined in a blinding flash as the hospital suddenly converted itself into an inferno. He slammed his eyes shut just before the punishing shockwave barreled into his frame, propelling him away from the hospital. The explosion knocked the wind out of Pierre's chest and sent chunks of brick, metal, and wood flying through the air like deadly projectiles, tearing through surrounding buildings and anyone unfortunate to be in their path. Pierre felt something impact his left leg, and a second later, a blinding pain seared through his nervous system, as if someone had poured sulfuric acid into his veins. He screamed in agony, gasping for breath as the fire and secondary explosions continued to rake the ruined hospital, consuming the air around it to fuel its flaming pyre.

He wasn't sure if he blacked out or not. His vision blurred as he opened his eyes, screams and shouts filled his ears. Then the pain came back like a sledgehammer, his leg seemingly on fire. He wiped the blood off his face and out of his eyes, unsure if it was his own, and propped himself up on one elbow, surveying the damage to his limb. Aside from the pain, Pierre felt amazingly distanced from the sight greeting his eyes. A large shard of metal protruded from his leg, embedded deeply into a wound sopping with blood. A multitude of other cuts from smaller debris had ripped his pants and shirt in various places, his clothes stained a wet sanguine red. Tentatively he reached down to the metal shard, and touched it. He almost collapsed in agony, feeling the embedded end scrape along his bone, his nervous system overloaded by the pain searing across his leg. Not even bothering to count them out, Pierre scooped his pill bottle and swallowed its contents, trying to drown out the pain. Mercifully, the soporific washed through him, dulling the pain to a bearable roar. Propping himself up again, he placed one hand firmly around the shrapnel, and with a decisive yank, removed the offending metal from his leg. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Pierre viciously lashed a scrap of his coat sleeve around the wound, fighting with each breath to remain conscious. He looked up, seeing through the blood and sweat partially obscuring his vision that the hospital was ablaze, half of it collapsed in on itself. Screams and shouts from withing the blaze were barely audible, and Pierre realized that both of his eardrums had likely been destroyed by the bombing. Placing a hand to his ear, feeling the fluid coming out of it confirmed his theory, and he screamed again, partly in pain, partly at the madness of it all.

Around him, the soldiers were advancing down the street, with a token few staying in the area. Pierre heard with dread the growl of the fighters approaching again, and covered his head with his hands, curling into a ball on the street, in some primitive form of survival instinct. The jets again passed low over the village, heading south towards where the fighting was the thickest. They roared over Pierre, pushing his body heavily into the ground and whipping up the loose debris that littered the street. In the distance Pierre heard the dull thuds of more explosions, and felt the ground shake as the munitions struck in the south end of the village. A terrifying explosion pierced through the grumble of detonations, and as Pierre opened his eyes to look south, he saw a massive fireball peeling into the air, as the village church's bell tower fell, seemingly in slow motion, into the inferno. A moan drew Pierre's attention back to the hospital. The heat from the blaze distorted the air around it, but through the haze Pierre saw an arm, blackened from heat, protruding from underneath a charred corpse. With a wince, Pierre rolled onto his stomach, and crawled towards the faint noise, shouting from his ragged throat, “Hang on Rémi!”, praying that he wouldn't be too late.

Pierre pushed forward, dragging his body across the street, every motion sending a dull pain through his body. The sounds of the firefight were getting more distant, only the moans and screams of the wounded, the crackling of the fires remained. He reached the arm, and heaved the charred and mutilated corpse off of the body underneath, fighting the urge to vomit as the smell of cooked flesh washed around him. The corpse rolled off, exposing Rémi, face caked with blood and dirt, underneath. Pierre examined her, shouting her name as he looked for obvious injuries. She had many, her ears were bleeding, one of her eyes seemed seared shut, in fact part of her face and the side of her body were badly burned. Wounds also speckled her body, cuts slowly weeping blood out into the dirt of the street. In many places her clothing had been burned or torn away, but the brunt of the damage from the explosion seemed to have been absorbed by the militia man standing between her and the blast. She was unconscious, and Pierre began to feel along her body for fractures, not wanting to move her until he knew he wouldn't injure her more. An explosion from within the hospital quickly changed his mind and he flung his body over hers as bricks and mortar rained down on the street, several striking him on the back. Gritting his teeth, and ignoring the pain, he roughly grabbed the back of Rémis collar, and violently began dragging her across the street, away from the hospital, every step sending a wave of agony through his body. He had to get her out of here, out of this insanity. He stumbled and half crawled his way off the street, into the beginnings of the jungle undergrowth, heading for the river, and a boat. There was an outpost thirty miles downstream, she'd could be helped there.

He pushed through the undergrowth, struggling through the dense collection of branches and leaves, the sweat pouring from his brow a consequence of both pain and exhaustive effort. Pierre looked back at Rémi, his vision swimming in a dizzying blur. Her head was lolled to one side, blood slowly coming from her mouth, as well as several cuts and fractures on her skull. He returned his gaze to the light ahead, the light streaming through the break in the jungle canopy. They were almost there, just ten more metres. He grunted in pain and pushed out of the oppressive jungle, onto the muddy banks of the river. Several boats were in the river, heading to the south side, filled to the rim with people. He waved, shouting, at one of the raft's still near the bank to stop. He dropped Rémi, and stumbled down the bank, still shouting hoarsely. The people on the rafts seemed agitated, preoccupied, with something upstream. Pierre glanced in the direction people were pointing and yelling, just in time to see the ominous gray shape of a fighter descending through the clouds. Without warning, the western most boat exploded in a shower of water and wood, flesh and bone. Others quickly followed suit, as the aircraft's rockets poured down into the river area like a shower of fiery death. A nearby explosion threw Pierre into the air, and in the corner of his eye, he saw Rémis mangled body flung into the air like an ungainly puppet. Her flight was cut short by a nearby tree, the impact into which made Pierre wince in horror.

Pierre came to, on the bank of the river, water lapping at his half submerged face. He could barely move, his legs seemed like dead weights. His vision was clouded, and he could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. The water and riverbank around him was choked with blood and debris, here and there a few moaned, but the vast majority were silent, staring with the lifeless eyes into the nothingness like only the dead can. Mutilated and shredded bodies and limbs floated in the slow moving river, staining it a sickly muddy red, bobbing between the debris of the rafts and boats. Pierre leaned up on his arm, feeling a burst of pain, and seeing his wrist contorted at an impossible angle, his flesh torn, his hand barely attached by some remaining muscle and tendon. He fought back the pain, which was coming back with a roaring drone. Pierre heard another sound, and his eyes turned to the skies, rage filling him as he saw another jet sinking below the cloud cover like an avenging prehistoric bird of prey, traveling on a spear of flame towards the grisly slaughterhouse of the river. Pierre saw the flashes from underneath each wing, and screamed in useless defiance at the aircraft as the cannon rounds traced their way down the river bank towards him. He never felt the round that killed him, so sudden and violent was it's impact. His entire upper torso was ripped away by the heavy shell, designed to peel away the armour of a tank, human flesh and bone barely slowing it's murderous progress. The round's shockwave that followed the round did the rest, converting what remained of his organs to a bloody pulp and tearing his body open from the overpressure it created in his body cavities.

She felt lulled by the ever present drone, the gentle caress and slight motion of her bed. Then the pain flooded in, and her eyes shot open, looking around in panic as the agony siphoned it's way through her body. She tried to move but couldn't her hands and legs bound tightly, her head barely able to turn at all. There was something on her face but she couldn't see it, she couldn't see well at all and she realized one of her eyes was shut. She struggled and tried to scream, tried to force her eye open but she couldn't. Her vision was tinged with red, but she saw light overhead, and grey. Piping and cables ran over the ceiling, crisscrossing in a melange of overlaps and turns that was dizzying to look at. The walls bowed outwards, tapering towards the ceiling, nothing made sense. A face appeared over her suddenly, smiling, but with eyes that seemed to stare past her. It was a man's face, gruff and with a shadow of stubble. Dirt and small flecks of blood covered most of the skin on his face, and the heavy helmet he wore was emblazoned with a red cross on the front. His mouth moved but she couldn't hear his words. She felt something prick her arm, and a feeling of warmth began to flow over her, quelling the pain, covering her like a warm blanket. The man continued to look into her eyes, and put a finger to his lips, and she stopped fidgeting. Rémi felt her body relaxing, her vision beginning to grey and drift. Before the blackness took her, she heard the man say in french over the drone “Sleep now, you are safe. Dormez.”

Mission 2 Interlude

Bushwhack by Skyhawk

Paul De Groot swore silently at the growing collection of razor grass cuts on his hands as he followed his local guide through the tall grasses and viciously tangled trees that surrounded the airfield outside of Kisanagi. The Dutch photographer gritted his teeth and attempted to push aside yet another large clump of grass that had somehow survived his native guide’s machete while simultaneously husbanding his cameras exposed telephoto lense from any dirt or whipping branches that might suddenly swing its way. ‘Next time you decide to go bush whacking,’ he mentally berated himself, ‘at least bring some gloves.’ He looked down at his camera and brushed at a bit of grass it had collected half heartedly. ‘And the camera bag. Don’t forget the camera bag.’

It would be worth the pain and annoyance he kept telling himself. If the rumors were true and he could get some clear shots he’d have news agencies begging to buy them from him. ‘Either that or French agents trying to steal them,’ he thought in disgust. He’d already lost one camera to a sneering french man this trip. The bastard had flashed a holstered pistol, muttered something about nosy reporters, and snatched the little Nikon from Paul’s hands. Paul hadn’t bothered to argue or seek help...it was a waste of time in places like this where anyone toting a gun, and there were a lot of them about, could make his own laws.

The sound of a jet engine ramping up somewhere up ahead pushed Paul out of his funk and added a bit more spring to his step as he navigated the narrow trail. Coming around a twisted tree trunk he nearly ran into his guide. The local boy pointed with his machete at a gap in the razor grass several meters away through which Paul could distinctly see open ground and, beyond that, the pitted runway of Kisanagi’s airfield. Paul grinned and dug out another small wad of cash. “Rester ici,” he said in french, handing it over. ‘I certainly hope he stays,’ Paul thought as he turned and began his careful approach to the edge of the wild grass, ‘otherwise I’m gonna have trouble getting back.’ He’d had enough guides run out on him in his three years covering rebellions and civil wars in Africa that he knew unless he told them up front that he’d pay them half again as much if they got him home again they weren’t likely to stick around for very long.

The view from the edge of the razor grass wasn’t the best he could have gotten but the guide had at least gotten him to the proper side of the field. A small collection of tents and shipping container barricades at one end of the field drew his trained eye. It looked deceptively shoddy. Third rate tents, beat up shipping containers, and just enough local looking people milling around that anyone not looking for something suspicious might miss them. But he knew what to look for. New weaponry, alert guards, just enough well placed clutter and barricades to make getting a good view difficult...all the signs of a well funded and well armed mercenary outfit.

There were a lot of foreign mercs in Africa these days but only a few who could pull off what these guys were rumored to have done and still remain relatively discrete. He’d heard about the massacre at Bania. He’d heard about the rebels, the government forces, the Foreign Legion, and the fight that had left the town nothing but a scorched ruin full of the dead and dying.

Stories like that were a dime a dozen in Africa these days. But what had peeked his interest had been the mystery air force that had supported the FFL. The kind of aircraft survivors had reported weren’t common in this neck of the woods...and neither were the munitions they carried or the careless way in which they were used. Bridges, hospitals, markets...it didn’t seem to matter to them what they hit. Even boats full of fleeing refugees.

Paul grinned coldly as his telephoto lense zoomed in on partially concealed aircraft revetment and the warplane it contained. ‘Click, click, click’ went his camera. Aircraft types, weapons, maintenance equipment...faces. His camera captured them all in stunning detail.

He went through two memory cards before he felt he’d gotten enough. He slithered back into the denser brush and escaped to where he’d left his guide. He shouldn’t have been surprised when he found the tree and its surroundings devoid of people...especially young native guides with machetes...but he couldn’t help it.

“Godverdomme!”

St. Claire Homecoming by NF

Roslyn was the name her parents had given her. Well, her mother had given her. Mother loved the Lord, daughter of french missionaries, and Father, simple African fisherman, loved Mother, so Roslyn it was.

They'd raised her in St. Claire, the village her missionary grandparents had helped construct. Easy life, only child for years. Her sisters would come later 10 years later, for a time it was a simple family as happy as one reasonably could be in the third world. Then the government began to destabilize, crumbling. They lived in fear of rebel attacks, the village swelled with displaced refugees from the north. Doctors without Borders arrived and built a hospital to serve as a staging ground and to care for the stream of mutilated victims coming from rebel controlled areas.

With them came Jean Claud.

She'd arrived back home from a university in France to find the intrepid reporter living in her home. The summer they spent together had begun with subtle antagonism towards the person who'd invaded her family life and evolved over the few short months into sneaking off down to the river and sitting under the quay to watch the sun go down, the fumblings in the dark when night fell. Mother would never approve of moving so quickly and Jean Claud was scared to death of her father, so they kept quiet. Still, he was waiting for her behind the house before she left for the job at the embassy, held her a little longer than he had to, kissed her quickly and said "Write mon amour."

She'd worked at the embassy for a few brief months, savoring the letters from home. She ate cheap food from a stall down the block from her apartment for a month, bought ruggedized waterproof camera with it. She sent it off with her next reply to Jean, the shipping cost more than the camera did. She'd always been telling him that the expensive Canon he'd brought with him wasn't going to last long out here, he never listened.

Then the letters stopped coming. The newspapers read that the rebels had made a major thrust, and were plowing through settlements like a homicidal whirlwind. Then word came through embassy channels, shortly after on the news, that the French Foreign Legion had fought a decisive battle against the rebels, at St. Claire.

She got leave, her supervisor was understanding of that at least. By jeep, shit heap of a Cessna and jeep again she arrived a week after the attack. Smoke was still coming out of the village, the town's single pump gas station stubbornly refusing to be quenched. The FFL had set up across the river. already bridging vehicles had spanned the rubble of the crossings obliterated in the opening minutes of the attack, and a footbridge made of the few remaining boats bobbed gently down river.

She made her way into town on foot, the jeep driver wouldn't go any further, "To much death." was his only explanation. She wandered the streets, the landscape had changed so much it was almost difficult to find her way home. Children sat in the streets, to tired to cry, covered in brick and mud dust. Adults wandered the streets like ghosts, no one looked at her. A man was perched half on top of a mound of rubble that might have bee a house once. The blood and dust on his face had congealed into a kind of clay, gluing one of his eyes shut. She wondered why he hadn't bothered to scrape it away, then realized that he probably had the right idea, nothing to be gained from seeing this kind of devastation in further detail. As she walked nervously past she was struck by a stench, one she would have been happier not realizing that it emanated from the man's now obviously gangrenous leg, looking for all the world like a worm ravaged piece of meat having been shot through with shrapnel.

When she finally found her house she sat for a while on the low china cabinet. All the other furniture in the small kitchen was gone, mortar round having come in through the roof and landing in the middle of the dining room table. Her mother's corpse was in the resultant crater.

The flies were buzzing, the smell was absolute hell, but Roslyn didn't register any of these things. next to her mothers crumpled form were the remains of a fine china serving dish, a gift from her father. scattered around it were croissants, flaking and crawling with flies. She'd loved croissants.

She was to numb to cry, she stumbled from the house and made towards the river bank. Word was that some of the villagers had made it to the far bank in boats, although the official line from the FFL was that the rebels had killed many as they tried to cross. She didn't want to hope that her father and sisters had made it, didn't want to think about Jean Claud, afraid she couldn't bear the crash that would follow if she was optimistic and wrong.

As she neared the bank she saw white tents. The remaining personnel of the hollow crater that was once a hospital had set up a triage center, they were doing what they could, but still she wondered why so many wounded were in the streets. As she passed through the clinic the answer became clear. There were maybe two or three people with any medical training here, all clearly at wits end, ordering around some villagers who had volunteered to help. All the medical supplies had been in the hospital, these people were operating with kitchen knives for scalpels, inner-tubes from bikes as tourniquets and alcohol serving as everything from antiseptic to pain reliever. She approached one of the doctors, washing his hands in rubbing alcohol. "Shouldn't the Legion be here, helping?" her french was practiced and clipped, unconsciously doing her best Embassy Official voice.

"The Legion saw fit to do triage as they moved through town, and donated a medic and some supplies. The Medic left after we objected to the froid salauds marking our hospital for an airstirke, and we ran out of most of the supplies within two days. We await resupply, but Médecins sans Frontières is hesitant to move into an area so soon after an assault, especially one that killed so many of their people, so for now we wait." The man was clearly haggard, but she had to ask.

"Where did the people who made it across the river go? Is there some kind of list of who made it, any way I can find out if..." She wouldn't let herself finish the thought.

The doctor looked at her wearily. "Mademoiselle, I spent the last hour tying off arteries in a man's amputated leg, and I will spend few trying to pull pieces of his femur out of his wife's back in the hope that she can move again without risking a shard of bone nicking her spine. I wish I could help, but I simply have n'ont pas le temps. Those that made it are either back in the village, hiding in tents near to FOB the Legion set up on the other bank or scattered to the four winds. Those that didn't are either at the bottom of the river or in that trench."

She made her way to the long pit, found easily enough by the stench of corpse rot and lye. She pulled a handkerchief with the Embassy logo on it from her pocket and pressed it over her nose, it didn't really help.

The sight that confronted her beggared belief. Rebels were mixed in with the townsfolk, limbs had been heaped in along with whole bodies, all caked with the white dust of sodium hydroxide. She found her middle sister and father first, head peaking out from beneath a jumble of legs and arms. She did them the courtesy of not vomiting directly into their grave.

She made her way down the trench, forced herself to walk and look, she had to know. Still each step felt like walking through quicksand. At the other end of the trench she found him. Jean Claud lay face up, at the top of the pile, his body baking in the sun. Mary was next to him, tossed into the pit in such a way that one of her arms rested across the reporter's chest. The tableau struck something like jealousy in Roslyn. She found it almost funny that she would feel something like that, but her ten year old sister was the last person to hold the man she had loved in her arms. She walked away without noticing that Jean had but one arm with which to return the dying embrace.

She sat under the quay were she and Jean Claud had spent those few happy nights, and finally let the tears come. She sobbed, wept. She held her knees under her chin and let the sorrow wrack her body, rocking back and forth. She opened her eyes after a while and spied something that stopped her quiet quaking.

A small yellow case had washed ashore. It was, she realized with a start, a camera. She got to her knees and shuffled a few feet towards the water lapping gently at the moors of the dock. Grabbing the camera by the strap she lifted it before disbelieving eyes.It was Jean's camera, the one she had sent him from the Embassy. Hesitantly she pressed the power button; when the device came alive she rushed back to her previous position and began eagerly paging through the photos.

Shots of her family, of the hospital, one of Jean Claud smiling at himself in the mirror, one of her as she walked out of the village towards a waiting jeep, full of hopes and ambition. Then shots of what she realized was the attack. A picture of her home, out of focus and shaky, on the run. One of a column of smoke and debris shooting up out of where the hospital had once stood, although she didn't know enough to recognize colored marker smoke mixed in with the black soot, nor the streak of jet exhaust in the upper corner of the photo. Shots of destruction in the streets, some of the same people she had seen on her way through, running down the road. A picture of a truck full of rebels firing a 12.7mm machine gun into a crowd. A picture of the boats. These were all at odd angles, she realized Jean must have set the camera to just take a picture every few seconds as he ran.

The last ones were clearly taken from the boats, the crowds packing into them, a close shot of his ever present satellite phone. One of the boats exploding, the trails of what were unmistakably even to her untrained eye rockets streaking into the water. A shot of an aircraft coming right at the camera, a gout of flame erupting from the nose. An arm holding a satellite phone spiraling away. then a splash of the arm disappearing beneath the water. The camera spun, people and faces, some caught in the middle of popping apart under cannon fire. The last shot as the memory card filled was of Mary's face, Jean must have collapsed atop her.

What stuck with her was the look on Mary's face, the sheer horror. jean had by sheer happenstance managed to get one of those photos that would define a conflict even with one of his arms gone and his camera on autopilot hanging around his neck.

Then it occurred to her just what he was holding. Planes had hit the boats. The same planes that the Legion was being so evasive about explaining. The rebels hadn't hit the refugees, these pilots had. Someone had to see these, but she knew enough about world politics that she was holding molten plutonium. These would never see the light of day, no matter who she handed them to. As soon as she made their existence known they'd disappear, and she might go with them. She resolved then to do this herself, not really thinking of what it would take. She remembered Jean's words, something he had once told her about chasing a story "The smallest details are often the most important mon amour. You can tell much from them."

She paged back to the shot of the plane bearing down on the boats, zooming as close as she could. She was happy that she'd bought him a good camera, and the plane was ridiculously close. There, above the roaring spew of flame pouring from the gun was a word written on the craft's nose. In pixelated Teutonic script she could just make it out."Baron" it read.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Mission 3

Osprey encounter by Skyhawk

It was a thankfully peaceful night in this particular stretch of the South Atlantic and Ensign Kamal Benayache of the Royal Moroccan Navy was glad of it. Any dog watch was a pain in the rear at the best of times but at least quiet ones didn’t leave you feeling like camel dung the next morning.

Kamal had dealt with rough nights on watch before. The Atlantic was not a forgiving place and many a night had found him concluding his watch in the middle of a raging South Atlantic storm. The placid seas outside the bridge windows tonight were a blessing and he offered up yet another prayer of thanks as he got up from his seat to stretch his legs. Not that there was much room to stretch in on the cramped bridge of the RMNS PV-7.

The Osprey 55 class patrol boat was one of the smaller warships in the Royal Moroccan Navy but the four vessels in the class were coveted posts for young officers looking to gain command experience. Not only were they at sea a good deal of the time but they were also known for allowing ensigns more opportunities to stretch their fledgling command authority in duties that weren’t just training exercises. There was a lot to do on a fifty-five meter vessel with a crew of only thirty-six after all.

Finishing his stretch Kamal circled the bridge. The man at the wheel was obviously tired but he’d straitened himself up when Kamal had gotten up to stretch and was even now looking much more awake than he had moments before. The ensign nodded to him and stepped up close to give the radar screen a brief scan. Nothing...’Just as it should be,’ he thought contentedly. But even the powerful surface search radar wouldn’t pick up everything. Small rafts, bits of garbage, and even modern zodiacs wouldn’t show up as more than a flutter on the radar screen...and just one missed contact could ruin Kamal’s night. That was why, even with modern technology, the Mk-1 Human Eyeball would never fall out of use.

Kamal left the radar screen and stepped out onto the tiny starboard side wing platform where one of the pair of duty lookouts were posted. It was a cramped space, meant only for one, but often occupied by many more on certain occasions. The seaman on duty didn’t seem to mind the intrusion in any case as his attention was elsewhere. The huge pair of night-binoculars he held looked like they’d been glued to his face. Kamal wasn’t sure how the man did it but whenever he came out here the binoculars were there...attached to his face like some strange limpet that never came off.

“No sightings?” Kamal asked, even though he knew the answer.

“No sightings, sir,” came the man’s reply; The same reply he’d given dozens of times and would probably continue to give even after Kamal was long gone from the PV-7.

Kamal nodded and opened his mouth to reply when the world turned itself on its ear.

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