pilotgirl in a one-circle dogfight desperately pushing the limits of her jet's center stick and her body, trying to squeeze out every bit of turn radius she can while tunnel visioned on the hostile's jet. she's completely sanely muttering to herself "come on, come on, just cross my fucking nose already, cross my fucking nose" with her finger twitching over the trigger. she half-pulls it as she IRST locks on and the hostile slowly comes into view on her hud, a sinister grin spreading on her face as the lead indicator on her HUD grows nearer to it.
the jet crosses the gun indicator, and it's automatic. like she was programmed for this very moment. she full-pulls the trigger, sending several autocannon rounds directly far up the hostile's left wing, severing it like an amputated limb.
the sound of the autocannon alone is enough to make her shiver, let alone the sights and sounds of her newly-earned splash. but most of all, the reward of a click and her Handler's praise over her radio floods whatever's left of her brain with endorphins.
An Estoc's time to climb is unmatched throughout the Imperial Air Corps. With wings as wide as a tennis court and enough thrust to make a strap-on collector blush, it should be.
Still, it takes an agonizing 14 minutes to complete a zoom-climb to the next phase of interception; some 30,000 meters up.
The first leg is a thrill, the roar of the engine, the initial burst of acceleration, watching the sea fall away and the sky rush down to meet you. The feeling is short lived.
At 10,000 meters high, Spare-Change levels out. She throttles up, and for the next eight minutes her Estoc builds speed; flying parallel to the earth.
Spare-Change squirms in her seat. All she can do is wait as the air speed indicator ticks up. She hates waiting.
Her radio crackles to life, and the soft voice of Ms. Alia follows. "Do you read me, Spare-Change?"
The pilot sends five clicks on her keyer back, "five-by-five, reading clear" in mouth occupied pilot speak.
A hum of approval. "Good. We're on a private channel by the way, thought you could use some company."
Spare-Change's eyes lit up at that.
Ms. Alia continues. "We didn't have the time for a full briefing before takeoff, so I thought I'd get you up to speed; while you got up to speed."
The ace tilts her head, confused.
"That was a joke." Ms. Alia sighs into her headset. "Back to the task at hand. You'll be intercepting an unidentified intercontinental carrier rocket. Readings indicate that whatever its payload is, it's non-nuclear; you're clear to engage however you see fit the moment you have radar lock with the bogey."
Spare-Change grins behind her mask, sharpened teeth digging into the bulb. She loves fireworks.
"The rocket was likely launched by the UER, though their state media has already disavowed it. There's a chance it's carrying a spy drone swarm. I've pre-loaded your IFF with the relevant marker values, just in case."
Gloved hands drum on the flightstick in anticipation.
Spare-Change could practically hear the smile creep into Ms. Alia's tone as she added "that means lots of points might be on the table, I know how much you love those."
And she does. Watching the numbers on her hud get bigger when she blows stuff up was probably the third best part of the job, she thinks. She rhythmically flexes her left and right glute, an excited tic she picked up from another pilot who had an emotive tail installed.
"Now, don't have too much fun out there," Ms. Alia gently chides. "You'll be joker fuel shortly after projected interception. Extending the engagement more than necessary means we'll have to fish you out of a rough wet landing. Understood?"
Spare-Change sends back two clicks, a slightly dejected "yes-ma'am."
"Good. You've been very patient, you know that? When you get back to the ship, a treat will be in order."
Spare-Change hasn't gone off mission itinerary to "hunt" in three sorties, and good behavior gets rewarded.
"You should be reaching zoom-climb speed right about now. Put on a show for me, okay?"
The line went silent just as the flightplan panel let out a "ping."
Spare-Change snarls hungrily, pulling back hard on the stick.
The Estoc's nose wrenches skyward and makes a hard turn from level to damn near vertical; hurtling upwards in an unrestricted climb well beyond safe sustained rate. Speed is traded for altitude hand over fist, the cockpit trembles and the pilot quivers as the jet screams into the sky. Fifteen thousand -twenty thousand - twentyfive thousand meters reads the altimeter.
Spare-Change looks out to the side and sees the curvature of the earth, and the boundary between sky and space. An Estoc was never built to slip the bonds of gravity, but moments like these make Spare-Change wonder if it wants to. She glances downward, at the unmarked land masses beneath. She wonders which is Aranyország and which is the UER, or Malvinas or Mei-Guo or Pindorma or any of the other places she learned about growing up. They all seem so small from up here.
Her early warning radar hisses for attention. No time for thoughts like that.
A neat little square appears on her hud, sailing through the thin air like snow on the breeze. The rocket.
She spins the Estoc once in a tight aileron roll, camera drones releasing from the undersides of the wings with a clack-clack-clack. The girls back home love air combat footage, and half of an ace's job is to give it to them.
Years of practice take over as she readies to fire. Air-to-air master to on, BVR missiles selected and in slave mode, FCR set to TWS, master fire switch to on, FCR creates full track file for the bogey, ASI indicates she's at launch speed and ranging carrot indicates she's within range, and finally - holding weapon release switch.
The jet's autocallout system announces "fox 3 - fox 3," as two missiles are loosed from the wings and begin their pursuit.
Spare-Change holds her breath.
And waits.
For fifteen excruciating seconds.
And the sky lights up like EV Day, as the missiles find their mark. The fuselage tears and fuel spills out and ignites, sending a hull full of UAVs - Ms. Alia was right - spilling out into the atmosphere.
Spare-Change doesn't hesitate for a moment, she thumbs over to ARH micromissiles and lets out a volley; trusting their active radars sniff out the signatures Ms. Alia set.
The Estoc stalls, the thin air too little to keep its engines at full burn. Spare-Change smiles as the jet begins to turn back towards the earth, watching the inky black above alight again with violent fireworks as her micromissiles find their targets. Her hud sings, each hit accompanied by the chirping of points being tallied.
Spare-Change exhales, satisfied to let herself fall until the engines can breathe; add some drama to her flight home.
She closes her eyes.
And then a warning light flashes hot red.
Her radio hisses to life again, Ms. Alia calls out "Spare-Change, come in Spare-Change, a secondary unknown craft has emerged from the wreck."
Her eyes shoot open as she whips her head around to look back over her shoulder.
From the waning fireball, a single point of light burns. It flashes, and begins to accelerate. Towards her.
She thumbs her viewport control to look through a camera drone, zooming in as far as it can.
She sees an angular, reverse swept winged jet. An OPS 34 - Hú Dié, a high maneuverability strike craft from the UER. Painted all black. Its tail is marked with four triangles, arranged like teeth.
Her radio crackles.
"Hello, little dog." The voice is low and breathy and flanged, like two vipers harmonizing. "I've come to play. Make this fun for me, won't you?"
when i get into the cockpit, the boundaries between my flesh, my flightsuit, and the seat vanish.
when i climb into my jet, my jet becomes me and i become it. the limbs of the jet become mine and mine the jet's.
pre-flight checks like stretching, the jet on the carrier taking deep breaths before being launched off from the catapult.
we control eachother as one, the extension or retraction of my left forearm meaning infinitely less to me than the throttle it moves as a result, the hand meaning nothing without the stick it controls.
my body is merely a vessel, a medium through which me and my jet interface.
rolling scizzors is a deeply intimate form of WVR dogfighting to me. two silver streaks circling eachother in the blue sky like two distinguished women dancing alone in a ballroom, twirling around and around until either they break off or one gets their nose on the other. the pilots in their cockpits both straining to manage their energy just a little better than the other, a close race where losing means death for the jet on the defensive.
NEED to write a jetsplo story where the pilot's handler is also in a lesbian relationship with the awacs woman so its a really weird and awesome power dymanic during the actual missions
