Captain Kai "Skunk" Wu sat in the cockpit of his F-16 as his gloved fingers tapped restlessly against the outside of his open canopy. The cool air in the early morning darkness did little to ease his frayed nerves as he beat a smooth rhythmic pattern that betrayed his impatience. Low hums of idling jet engines and the familiar scent of jet fuel filled the air, but tonight, everything felt different.
As he gazed out over the tarmac, Wu’s eyes were greeted by ground crews hustling between aircraft, shouting orders and signals that were lost to him over the whines of turbines. Not only were there F-16s like his lined up, but he saw F-15cs and even F-35s, all of which were bristling with the new Raytheon Peregrine missiles. The Sleek and deadly hit-to-kill weapons were fresh out of research and development and put into the perfect position to be adopted by the standardized ‘dragon killers.’
Measured at approximately 6 feet long, these missiles had the equivalent range of an AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile (AMRAAM) that the US Air Force typically fielded and had little effect on their draconic foe. The Peregrine, on the other hand, looked very promising and needed very little modification to house Depleted Uranium penetrators to make them even more lethal against armored targets.
Wu watched as more conventional fighters idled off to the side, with the machines' pilots lounging or performing routine checks. Meanwhile, logistics aircraft and the F-35s taxi for their runs to takeoff. It wasn't the nail in the coffin that Wu would assume was the kick-off to something larger, but it was another point on the graph that made the line longer. Why else would anything and everything with powerful radars take to the skies before all the other, more heavily armed, aircraft?
He licked his lips and sat back before gazing at the air-control tower. If Wu was honest with himself and didn't indulge in this schizo behavior, then odds had it that this was another exercise or readiness maneuver. It would have been the fifteenth time they'd been told to scramble, only to idle on the tarmac and be told to spool down and go back to the briefing room. The few times they’d manage to take off and get into formation, their command would always call it off at the last minute and have them turn back.
It was like a bit of dance they’d perform over and over again. Wu knew why; discerning eyes were waiting and watching what they’d be doing. To what end, however? Well, that was way beyond Wu’s pay grade.
But something was nagging at him. There was this gnawing sensation in his gut that they were in the precipice, and he simply couldn't shake it. Sure, he could also say they’d been on the precipice this entire time, but today felt more… real.
It all started with the briefing room. Their roles were explained in greater detail, with more objectives and specific targets. In comparison, they'd been training for these scenarios in more broad strokes for months, but this night, Wu was given proper areas of responsibility and taskings.
During the briefing, their objectives were laid out with uncharacteristic specificity. The entire squadron was to perform probing operations and support Wild Weasels in drawing out enemy air assets and getting a good idea of their defense network. It was apparent to Wu that what the briefing outlined wasn’t a full-on air campaign, but it was a step in the direction of one—a calculated move to test the waters and map out unknown threats.
Wu Adjusted himself in his seat as a wave of jitters flowed through him. They were testing the waters here, and the rough map of their area of responsibility further justified his suspicions. While the heavier hitters would secure a buffer zone around the rift, Wu and the rest of the squadron were pressed further to see how the enemy would react.
Basically, his job was to kick the hornet's nest and see what would happen.
Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by the distinctive buzzing of propeller blades cutting through the din of jet engines. Snapping his head to the side, Wu's eyes widened when he saw the hulking figures of C-130 Hercules cargo planes lining up on an adjacent runway, their engines roaring as they prepared for takeoff. Even more shocking were the AC-130 Ghostriders gunships, bristling with weaponry, taxiing up behind their cargo sister planes and preparing for their own sorties.
Wu watched silently as the hulking AC-130 Ghostriders lumbered down the runway, their propellers chopping through the air with a throaty roar. The gunships seemed almost out of place among the sleek jets, but their presence spoke volumes. He couldn't tear his eyes away as the sounds of their propellers turned violent, lurching them forward as the behemoths took off.
Gripping the edge of his canopy, Wu continued to stare as each of the incarnations of death took to the skies. "Pampers, you seeing this?" He keyed his mic over the squadron frequency.
There was a moment of static-laden silence before Lieutenant Kara ‘Pampers’ Bell responded. "Yeah… Yeah, I'm seeing it." She responded in an uncharacteristically subdued tone that carried a hint of unease.
The flight leader glanced over to where her F-16 was parked a few jets down the line. He could imagine her expression mirroring his own—a mix of apprehensive anticipation. "They don’t roll those things out unless something was going down," Wu said as his fingers drummed against the side of his cockpit more intensely.
"Guess this means we're really doing it," Pampers replied. There was a slight quiver in her voice that she quickly tried to suppress. "I don’t think this another drill."
"Yeah," Wu agreed. "I think this is it."
The other two in Wu’s flight remained uncharacteristically silent as the weight of that conversation seemed to settle. After months of prep and tion and countless briefings, the movement had finally arrived. Even though they wanted nothing more than to deliver sweet and swift vengeance against those who had the gall to invade them, the men of Skunk’s flight were still nervous.
Silence reigned over the comms as the last of the lumbering cargo planes, and gunships lifted into the sky, their silhouettes shrinking against the horizon. The usual banter and chatter among pilots had faded. They were replaced by collective anticipation. Crossing into an alien world was no longer an absurd abstract concept whispered about in briefing rooms—it was now imminent. They were about to project America's might through the rift, and every pilot here would be the instrument of their country’s justice.
But the contemplative quiet was all interrupted by the crackle of the control tower's frequency coming to life. "Attention all aircraft. Execute, execute, execute. Time now 1630 hours." An authoritative voice echoed in their helmets. “I repeat, All aircraft. Execute, execute, execute.”
Immediately after, the familiar voice of their squadron commander, Colonel William "Roadkill" Reeves, resonated over the squadron channel. "All flights, this is Roadkill. Mission is a go. Commence takeoff sequence per briefed plan."
Almost in a snap of the fingers, the doubts, anxieties, and unease that had been tingling at the edges of every pilot’s consciousness were washed away and replaced by cool professionalism. Wu himself felt as if he suddenly switched gears. His fingers flew back inside the cockpit, and he deftly moved over switches and controls as he double-checked all his systems.
The tower's voice came through again, this time directed towards Wu’s flight. "Skunk 1, Tower. Clear to taxi, runway four."
Satisfied with his checks, Wu took a deep breath and hit his transmit button. "Tower, Skunk 1. Rolling with two, proceeding to runway four." He replied before signaling to the ground crew to double time.
The ground hustled around the aircraft to double-check that nothing was out of order while the crew chief rushed to the edge of the taxiway. Once there, he lifted two bright orange wands, and with crisp movements, he guided Wu forward, ensuring clearance from nearby aircraft and equipment. The marshaller's gestures were sharp and unmistakable—even in the early 0300 darkness.
Wu's marshaller stood in front of his jet with two orange wands, guiding his pilot as they began to Taxi. Wu followed the marshaller around other aircraft and obstructions as he eased the throttle forward. But eventually, the marshaller came to a halt, snapped his heels together, and offered a crisp, sharp salute the moment the aircraft hit the taxiway.
The Captain returned the gesture and continued toward the hold short line as the canopy lowered over him. A hydraulic hiss resounded, sealing him inside the cockpit, muffling the external noises, and cocooning him as Wu worked his instruments and displays.
As he approached the hold short line, Wu noticed that a pair of F-15EXs on full burner on Runway 4 and gently lifted into the air as Wu brought his F-16 to a stop. Glancing over to his right, Wu watched as Bell pulled up alongside him, giving him a thumbs-up as her own canopy was sealed shut.
“You ready to hurry up and wait?” Wu’s headset echoed with a bell voice, causing him to chuckle and place a hand over his lowered visor.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Nothing in the world could describe the military as a whole more than ‘hurry up and wait.’ It was as much of a prophecy as it was a curse. No matter what branch you were in, you were destined to spend hours upon hours of mind-numbing boredom before you experienced the nerve-shattering horror that was combat.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” Wu continued to laugh as he responded. “Hell, maybe they’ll get cold feet again and tell us to RTB for the millionth time.”
He joked, but Wu and Bell both knew that command had a habit of running drills in the guise of missions or just outright aborting them. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but as Wu looked around, he could see the sheer amount of assets being put in play for it to be just a simple drill. Perhaps it would be another aborted op, but….
For a moment, Wu’s eyes glazed over as he thought about those AC-130s one more time, but the tower kicked him back to reality. "Skunk 1, Tower," the radio crackled to life. "You are cleared for takeoff, runway four. Push to ten thousand."
Wu keyed his mic and repeated the order: "Skunk 1 cleared for takeoff; push to ten thousand."
Without saying another word, Wu and Bell threw their throttles forward, running their engines up and causing the F-16s to lurch forward. Wu's eyes tracked the speed on his HUD as his jet began to accelerate down the runway. "Passing one-fifty knots," Wu radioed to Bell. "Rotate."
They both pulled gently on their sticks, causing the noses of their aircraft to lift simultaneously. The two F-16s soared into the sky in perfect unison, executing a flawless dual takeoff. As they climbed, the ground fell away beneath them, and the sky expanded, the horizon stretching wide as they ascended toward the setting sun.
"Positive rate, gear up," Wu called out, retracting his landing gear.
"Gear up," Bell echoed.
They continued their ascent, the engines humming steadily. The control tower's voice came through their headsets one final time. "Skunk One and Two, switch to Departure on channel five."
"Switching to channel five," Wu acknowledged, adjusting his radio frequency. "Departure, Skunk One and Two climbing through three thousand for ten thousand."
"Skunk One and Two, Departure. Radar contact confirmed," the controller responded. "I am relinquishing control to Overlord. Godspeed."
"Roger that, tower. See you on the flip side." Wu responded before glancing over at Bell's jet, which was flying smoothly beside him.
A few moments later, the familiar voice of the AWACS controller, call sign Overlord, crackled through their headsets. "Skunk One and Two, this is Overlord. We have you on our radar. Climb and maintain angels twenty and proceed to waypoint alpha."
"Overlord, Skunk One copies all," Wu replied before pulling gently on his stick, causing his F-16 to pierce through a thin layer of clouds. "Climbing to angels twenty."
As Wu and Bell continued their ascent, their engines' roar settled into a steady hum. The two pilots silently climbed into the canvas of ethereal darkness that was the early morning sky, completely lost in their own thoughts. Almost simultaneously, they looked to see the stars peppered all around them and the full moon that floated above, watching them almost judgingly.
But their thoughts were suddenly interrupted when two more F-16s appeared off their wingtips. Lieutenants Mark ‘Pockets’ Evans and Ian ‘Crash’ Mitchell finally joined the formation as Skunk Three and Four.
"Thought you two could use some company," Pocket’s voice crackled over the comms.
"Bought goddamn time." Wu replied with a smirk. “Fall asleep at the wheel again, Crash?”
"HEY! I passed out from G-forces, okay?" Crash shot back in almost a whine. "At least I didn’t shit my pants like Pampers here!."
"Well, don’t get too confident there crash," Bell teased. "You might lose Uncle Sam another 100 million dollar piece of equipment."
As the four F-16s leveled off at 20,000 feet, Wu took a moment to survey the skies, taking in all the identifying friend or foe pings that his helmet’s datalinked HUD pinged. The sheer number of airborne aircraft would have made him fall out of his chair if he wasn’t strapped down to it. Everywhere he looked were strobe lights and green boxes his system marked as friendly.
"Would you look at that," Bell murmured as she watched all the fighters, bombers, and support aircraft take up their own holding formations. "I've never seen so shit in the air at once."
"Feels like we're part of D-day or something," Pockets added.
Wu glanced down at the battle management system on his multifunction display. "AWACs and ATC must be losing their minds managing all this traffic," Wu commented as more IFF pings lit up his screen like digital constellations.
"Can you imagine trying to keep track of all this shit?" Pocket replied, looking around, seeing pings of F-35’s B-1 Lancers, F-15EXs, and more F-16s. "I'd need about ten more screens and a caffeine drip feed."
As the quartet of F-16s settled into their holding pattern around the rift, the tension eased enough for the familiar banter to resume. The pilots maintained a loose circular formation, their jets carving arcs against the star-studded canvas of the night sky.
"Hey Crash," Bell's voice crackled over the comms, mischief evident. "Heard you almost took out a runway light on your last landing. You practicing for a new career in demolition?"
Crash groaned dramatically. "Oh, come on! That was one time, and the tower gave me clearance late."
Pockets chimed in with a chuckle. "Sure, blame it on the tower. Next, you'll say the runway moved."
"Maybe it did," Crash shot back. "You know these budget cuts—they can't even keep the pavement in one place."
The night stretched on as the quartet of F-16s settled into their holding pattern around the rift. While they waited for more orders, the tension started to ease just enough for the familiar banter the flight usually indulged in to resume. The pilots maintained a loose wedge formation as their jets carved their way to the star-studded night sky.
"Hey Crash," Bell's voice crackled over the comms, mischief evident. "Still having trouble telling up from down?"
"Having a problem figuring out what a flight seat and a toilet is?" Crash retorted. "Didn't realize barrel rolls were supposed to make you piss your pants."
"Ouch," Pockets chimed in. "Score one for Crash."
"Careful, Pockets," Bell shot back. "Keep talking, and you'll find your pockets empty again next poker night."
"Promises, promises," Pockets laughed.
They continued their circuit, continuing their banter as the mile-wide and long rift below blasted the area with its soft orange sunlight. It was a surreal sight to see a star of another world slowly set over the horizon, blasting their world with gentle orange light that blasted away a good portion of the night sky's darkness.
It didn’t take long for a comfortable silence to settle over them as each pilot gawked at the rift. The sounds that could be heard now were the frequent orders from their squadron commander and the commands of AWACs through the net as their engines hummed in the background.
But soon, another voice jogged them from their reverie as a KC-135 Stratotanker came over the net. "Skunk, this is Texaco," a new voice broke through the comms. "Proceed to waypoint Charlie for refueling."
Wu’s eyes went to his battle management system and tapped at the touch screen before replying back. "Copy that, Texaco," he responded before returning to his flight’s frequency. "Alright, children of the corn, let's line up for a drink."
As the formation of four F-16s headed to rendezvous with the orbiting Boomer, the massive aerial refueling platform came into view. After running through one more series of pre-contact checklists, Wu eased into the pre-contact position, guided by the tanker's director lights, before maneuvering into place for refueling.
One by one, each fighter connected with the KC-135's boom with a resonating and familiar 'clunk' of a successful link-up. For several minutes each, the Vipers remained locked to the tanker, at 20,000 feet, taking turns chatting with the boom operators about their days. Sometimes the conversations took a more heretical turn as a few conversations turned into heated debate about the merits of pineapple on pizza with the surprisingly opinionated boom operator.
Meanwhile, Bell couldn't stop laughing as she tried to explain the plot of her favorite K-Drama to the bewildered tanker crew. As Pocket connected, he challenged the boom operator to a high-stakes game of ‘I Spy,’ limited to the cramped confines of their respective cockpits. By the time the last Viper disconnected, Overlord's voice broke through their headsets as if they were the ones everyone had been waiting on.
"Skunk 1, this is Overlord. Turn heading three-niner-zero and proceed to waypoint Romeo. Descend to angels three." The AWACs operator ordered.
A deep silence fell over the flight of F-16s as they sat there, somewhat confused. "Overlord, Skunk 1 copies," Wu finally responded after a few seconds of being stunned. "Turning to heading three-niner-zero, proceeding to waypoint..." The Captain hesitated for a moment. "Proceeding to waypoint Romeo, descending to angels three."
Following their flight leader, the formation pushed their noses down and descended toward 3,000 feet as instructed. The colossal wormhole ahead loomed larger with every passing second—a perfect sphere that distorted the very fabric of reality in the night sky of Ohio.
"Are we… Are we really doing this?" Awe was evident in Bell’s voice as it came in barely above a whisper.
Wu's eyes were wide as dinner plates behind his visor. It was one thing to suspect something big was going to happen, but it was another thing entirely to become completely vindicated of his suspicions. It was actually happening. They were really going to pull the trigger and set them loose on the other side.
"Looks like this is it, guys…" Wu replied, his eyes fixed on the anomaly ahead. We’re going through to the other side.” The captain gripped his stick tight as his eyes ran over the setting sun, which was split by the landscape's towering mountains in the distance.
Almost at the same time, aircraft all around them were reacting in their own way. Some converged with Skunk's formation of F-16s down at 3000 feet toward the wormhole. Others took up holding positions high above to wait their turn. Fighter’s. bombers, cargo planes… everyone moved in such synchronized coordination that it almost looked like a choreographed dance.
"All units, this is Roadkill. Operation Basilisk is now in effect.” The radio crackled to life with the voice of their squadron commander. “I repeat, Operation Basilisk is in effect. Proceed to pre-planned routes."