“Why the hell did I enlist to roll around, there in Ulyanovsk, everything’s different, I’ll have a house, a dacha, and I’d drive an airbus.”
-Su-25 Pilot’s song
They had just arrived on the planet last night and they were already being sent on a mission.
But of course, they weren’t told about it the day before despite it being planned, oh no, they decided to do it at eight in the morning. Leading to all six of them being awoken half an hour before at 7:30, to listen to the briefing in English as given by a sultry woman, who was working as the head of the air force’s contingent on this damnable planet.
It didn’t matter that he was living in his father’s dream as implanted in his time with the Little Octoberists and one which was shared by many people. Because he was too tired to care.
And they had only gotten twenty minutes for breakfast with no time for cigarettes. At least the food itself was good, he couldn’t deny that. The Tatar next to him had in fact marvelled that it was made from proper ingredients as well as being in date. Unlike your average ration in his days in the armed forces of the Russian Federation where they couldn’t give you bread that wasn’t stale before you waited around all day doing nothing.
So Pogodov reasoned that this was, therefore, somewhat of an improvement. Even if it did seem like they were being used as PR tools to try and calm the idiots back “home”, who still couldn’t accept the fact that they lost and were now IFC citizens. Needless to say, he was going to stay in his new L.A apartment and stay off of social media when he got back.
The mission was going to be a lot less stressful than most of the ones he flew previously, however. Just fly over with a load of rockets and bombs to strafe a sort of industrial hamlet. It should easy and relaxing he thought as he stared at his scared face in the mirror.
If, of course, the little soap box of an aircraft they were flying didn’t split apart in flight. Nothing would be able to replace his Rook for him and this was most certainly a downgrade.
The Gremlin, as they called it, was a light aircraft, with a small main fuselage that housed the man engine, cockpit, and such. The usual two wings. But on those wings were two pylons that extended backwards and between them was the tail assembly. Making it a twin boom aircraft like the Vampire.
To Pogodov it looked a little weird and had one feature he was going to absolutely hate.
It was a two-seater cockpit. A tight one at that with the seats placed side by side. And in the co-pilot’s seat was going to be an insufferable young pilot.
He knew that after spending only a few days with him as the chatty thing rambled off about this and that and the other, and oh, would people want to have a drink with him?
“Extroverts” like Antipov made Pogodov want to dig himself into a deep dark hole where they couldn’t be bothered again.
But there was no avoiding him as they walked towards their aircraft.
The man smiled at him as they approached. He had brownish-red hair, pale skin and grey eyes, his slender mouth greeting him in Russian, “Hey, it’s you Pogodov! We should have spoken a lot more before going into combat, but we have plenty of time before we’re going be getting shot at still, I hope we make good use of it!”
Pogodov groaned, “Get in and please ease off, I don’t want to make this mission longer than it needs to be. I’m also choosing the music so don’t you dare touch the aux plug.”
Antipov’s face flashed with disappointment before he shrugged, and his face turned back to contentment.
Pogodov followed him up the ladder, sitting down on his seat on the right, squeezed right next to Antipov.
Sealed in with an optimist who can’t shut up was not exactly going to be fun.
But still, he got on with his job. The dashboard was awfully modern with plenty of digital screens but there were enough analogue switches and dials for him to be comfortable.
With a quick series of switch flicks the dashboard came to life as the power was turned on. It took him a second to find the engine button label in English, but he flicked it.
Behind him a low whine started to spiral up, the engine revving up before the fuel was injected, ignited and then that low whine kicked up. It was a sound that on any aircraft made Pogodov feel at home.
A few more switches and button presses later and everything was set up for flight, the entire procedure being almost like meditation. He’d even forgotten about Antipov until he looked to his side. Then the slight feeling of oncoming doom came back.
He sighed, “Hawk 1-2 to Hawk 1-1, we’re ready to go.”
“Hawk 1-3 to Hawk 1-1, we’re ready too.” The Tatar’s voice called over the radio.
The rough voice of the wing leader then replied like clockwork, “Roger, form up on runway and get ready to go on my order.”
“Roger, wilco.” Pogodov replied back, the Tatar soon following.
They hadn’t completely gotten a hold of the standard brevity codes, but they were turning out a fair slight better than having to make code words up with the squadron. And they were better than the ones he made up back then.
“They sound cool, don’t they?”
Pogodov whipped his head around, to see his co-pilot smiling as he fastened his mask.
“Yeah, sure…” He sighed, fastening his mask in turn and pulling off the breaks, applying a little power to push them out of their parking space, taxiing along towards the runway behind the leader.
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic, do you?”
“That’s because you’re here.”
Antipov was taken aback, “Why!? Did I hit your babushka?”
“No. I’d just to prefer to fly this thing by myself.”
“Ohhh!” Antipov gasped, “You’re like those cops and pilots in American shows! You’re a loner!”
Popadov nearly slammed his head into the dashboard at that, “No, I just prefer people who don’t talk as much as you do!”
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
“You have clearly not seen the Americans then when they’ve had a few drinks. Well… Even before they’ve had a few drinks…”
“I know perfectly well what they’re like.”
“When have you met them then?”
“When I defected. After a while they got cuddly, and I was starting to doubt if dumping the shit hole of a country I had left was worth it if I had to deal with them.”
“You know, if committing war crimes is worth not dealing with friendly people to you, I think you may just be a grouch.”
“They were not friendly,” Popadov grumbled, “They were overbearing.”
“Still not worth the war crimes to avoid.”
They stayed silent for a while as they lined up for take-off. But soon the order came and they were rumbling down the rough runway before pulling up and hauling themselves into the skies with their overburdened aircraft, loaded with as many bombs and rockets as they could.
As they rose higher and high Popadov reasoned they were in a safe climb, “You have the stick Antipov…” he muttered, the co-pilot quickly scrambling to grab hold of their stick as Popadov riffled through their pockets, eventually pulling out a MP3 player with aux cord. A little more rifling and maybe accidently throwing a few switches they found the port and plugged it in.
A few more buttons and Slavic folk music started to play in their headsets as Popadov laid back, taking control of the stick back. The aircraft now his home.
Antipov simply sat there for a moment, slightly confused before finally saying, “I’m not sure why you put this on. If we’re flying, we should have something more energetic on.”
Popadov turned with squinted eyes, “What do you mean, this is energetic.”
“No, no! Not like rock and pop songs from the west in the 80s! Top Gun you know? That’s what you really should be listening to when flying!”
“W-Well! While that does sound good, I’m the pilot here, so I choose the music as I have said!”
“Your taste in music is not very good and everything will be a lot more fun with the proper background!”
“Yo-“
The voice of the wing commander crackled over the radio just as Popadov was about to launch his counter, “Shut up you two! Keep that fucking pillow talk of yours in the bedroom and not on the open channel!”
The two of them looked on, finding on one of the screens, a little red light indicating that they had just been broadcasting all of it to everyone on their wavelength.
Silence followed before the wing commander finally broke it again, “And my tastes are far better than your lot!”
His voice crackled out, only to be replaced by… Replaced by ABBA playing over the radio.
Popadov couldn’t help but just be stunned by this all, his jaw slack.
Antipov was having an entirely different reaction however as he flicked their broadcast off and then doubled over as far as his belt would let him, howling with laughter.
As Antipov laughed however, Popadov couldn’t help but chuckle a little as well. While he hadn’t really spent any time with the commander, he didn’t think the man was the sort who’d be an ABBA fan. And it warmed his heart to know that.
“You know Popadov, if you can laugh at that, maybe you aren’t a grouch after all.”
“I’m not heartless you know…”
“You certainly come off that way however, you cannot argue with that!”
Popadov smiled beneath his mask “Fine but- Ah fuck!“
He gripped the controls and pulled the craft into a turn as he suddenly remembered it was coming up, the frame of the aircraft creaking a little as it got behind the leader.
“Got a little distracted?”
“A little.”
They flew onwards for a bit longer, chatting between each other a little more freely to pass the time. The forests turning to swampland as the flew at low altitude towards their target.
“Popadov. You know that they said we’re bombing an industrial estate thing. What is the industrial estate actually making?”
Popadov was about to open is mouth before he realised, he wasn’t told either, “I have no idea either. I don’t think it’s worth the cost of these munitions. I tell you, the only things they made well over there were the bombs, they were dirt cheap and worked. Though…” He narrowed his eyes, “How cheap were they actually? You know, what does a FAB cost?”
Antipov looked up from his notepad, “Oh! They’re two-hundred rubles.”
“T-Two hundred rubles!” Popadov cackled, “Where they made of wood?”
“Oh no! The FABs I saw were real ones with explosives and all, just they were little FABs!” Antipov tried to gesture to demonstrate the size of it but the constrains of the cockpit stopped him.
“Right then… Where did you get that information?”
“I saw a man come into the munition’s depot one day, wasn’t sure who they were but I followed them. Then I saw them meet with the supply officer who took a carton of cigarettes off of the man for one of the bombs. That carton of cigarettes was in turn worth two-hundred rubles!”
“Cyka! So that what kept happening to the fucking spare engine parts whenever they said they were out! They sold them to some fucking tourist!?”
Antipov shrugged, “Probably. I mean, we all have taken little things home with us, this is just one step up.”
“And now I know why Boris was so mad about that lamp…”
The ground bellow them started to turn to forest however as the small squadron raced along as the order to climb came, the Gremlin rising up higher and higher for the attack.
As they flew higher and higher, they saw their target. A large complex made up of open pit mines, manufactories, lodgings, a fort and storehouses.
The radio crackled to life again as the voice of the wing commander came through the radio, “Alright, on your maps you should have your targets marked. We are not to hit any of the civilian bunkhouses under any circumstances, got it? The mines should be safe however, FAC spotted the miners leaving half an hour ago.”
“Roger.” Pogadov called back before turning to Antipov, “You’ve got control of the targeting pod then and we are going to be hitting…”
He checked the map slipped into a clear pocket on his knee. It was a satellite image of the compound, with the storehouses highlighted with a red box around them.
“You’re going to be hitting the store houses, the long brown ones next to the big stone thing.”
Antipov flicked the power on for the pod, the view from it soon popping up on one of the monitors, “Don’t worry, I was quite good with PCMs, I was one of the only pilots who could actually hit anything in my squadron… And locked! Make a run due west and we should hit them easily.”
He nodded, “Hawk 1-1, do we have permission to engage?”
“Roger, weapons tight, moving in with you.”
“Roger, wilco”
He rolled the craft then pulled, cancelling his dive and pulling to the right before flipping around and pulling left, the little manoeuvre bringing him right in line with the storehouses before he started to move the aircraft into a shallow dive. Behind him the leader was on a similar path to the fort.
“Antipov, do you still have a lock on that warehouse?”
“Still got it, you should be ready to drop in 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 and 1!”
“Paveway.”
There was a click as two bombs dropped, falling behind them as they glided towards their target.
On the monitor they sailed into view, getting further and further away from their aircraft as they approached the target.
The warehouse erupted into a field of flames as the bombs detonated, the fire blasting into the other storehouses causing them to explode in turn. Debris and shrapnel flying everywhere.
“Cyka!” they both swore, bodies flinching as the explosion rattled the cockpit despite their altitude. It was the sort of thing that made them all worry about the possibly of some sort of fragment ripping through the airframe and hitting them or a vital component.
Off in the distance, bombs slammed into the little stone fort that overlooked the complex and the nearby mine, with far less dramatic explosions following.
Pogodov grunted, pulling the Gremlin away from the burning complex bellow. “Hawk 1-2 to Hawk 1-1, anymore targets?”
“Hawk 1-1 to Hawk 1-2, there are a set of troops trying to flee bearing 1-1-4 bulls, take them out.”
“Roger.”
He yanked back on the stick, the aircraft creaking as it turned sharply, Antipov scanning the terrain to try and find their targets.
“Pogodov! The targets are bearing 1-1-7 bullseye, they’re moving as fast as they can.”
“Got it. Let’s see what these rockets are like then.”
He pushed into another shallow dive as he sped towards a group of fleeing cavalrymen, flicking his weapons to the unguided rocket pods slung under his aircraft.
The ballistics computer gave a circle up on the HUD of his flight display, estimating where the missiles may land as he brough it just in front of the cavalry.
He pulled the trigger, a stream of rockets flying away with their white trails spreading out like a spider’s web.
A ripple of explosions followed; the view of the cavalry obscured for a moment before he saw a few scattered horses with riders come out of the smoke.
He clenched his jaw as he noticed how close to the ground he was getting. But before pulling up he decided to give one more thing a go.
“Guns, guns!”
He pulled the other trigger, the minigun in their nose roaring as a spray of tracer rounds raced towards the survivors just as he pulled up.
“Cyka! You’re fucking insane, you know that!?” Antipov swore, clinging onto the dashboard, “I’d never get that close to the fucking ground.”
Pogodov chuckled, “I was just giving myself a taste of the good old times of air support when you could do this shit.”
“You remember when I said you were like some American 80s action movie stars? The grumpy mad ones?”
“Yeah?”
“I stand by that!”