Puerto Princesa, Philipines, July 2035

Bill Ramirez, a local diving instructor, runs the small coastal venue alongside his wife—the same woman he met here years ago when he first arrived.

“Besides her, I don’t know why I stayed,” he admits, gazing out over the sunlit waters. “Sure, it looks like paradise, but I guess part of me just never wanted to go back home. When the war ended, I used my GI Bill to travel. The world was a mess back then, but somehow, I ended up here. And I just never left. That’s just it.”

A ten-year veteran of the U.S. Navy, Bill flew both F/A-18F Super Hornets and F-35s during his career.

“We were supposed to transition fully to the F-35s, but the Super Hornet packed more punch for its buck,” he explains. “That’s what most of the war was about—efficiency. The Crabs didn’t even have radars, so our advantage was overwhelming.”

His memories of Operation Ramadan are particularly vivid.

“We had been running daily sorties leading up to it—close air support, infrastructure targeting, taking out bridges and fuel dumps. Looking back, if we had known we’d be going back on the offensive, we might’ve saved a few of those bridges.”

Then, the orders came.

“They told us to hold back for a few days, focus on maintenance and restocking ammunition. The USS George H. W. Bush—that’s where I was stationed—alongside the Harry S. Truman and a whole pack of destroyers. Took a week just to refill our arsenal. That’s when we knew something big was coming.”

He smirks at the memory. “They served lobster in the mess hall that night. That’s when we knew for sure. Then, Al Jazeera broadcasted the code phrase from the Turkish president: Murad, Murad, Murad. He acted like we were about to bomb Pearl Harbor—like the Crabs were even watching TV.”

“We got our warning order, our briefing and which targets we were to hit. Next thing I knew, I was onboard my F18. Pilot seat, strapped in. My WSO in the back seat, guy we called ‘Camel,’ kept bitching about needing to pee. Bill laughs. There was a literal queue to the catapult. We weren’t the only ones taking off.

He raises a hand, counting off the steps as if reading from a manual.

“First, plane captains give their final checks, making sure everything’s secure. Ordnance crews double-check the weapons. Final checkers sweep for any loose objects—last thing you want is FOD taking out an engine.”

He mimics the iconic hand signals. “Then, the Catapult Officer—‘Shooter’—signals us. That’s when it gets real. I was drinking my Gatorade. Damn near threw the bottle when I realized It was our turn.”

Bill’s eyes gleam as he describes taxiing to the catapult shuttle. “The deck crew hooks in the nose gear, locks the launch bar. That’s when you really feel it. The jet’s alive beneath you, just waiting to go.”

He takes a deep breath, as if reliving the moment. “We go through the final pre-launch checklist. Canopy sealed. Flaps set. Controls checked. Throttles to full military power. Then, I give the final salute to the shooter.”

He claps his hands together suddenly. “Boom. Catapult fires. Zero to 150 knots in under two seconds. You feel it in your spine. One second, you’re locked down. The next, you’re airborne, roaring over the deck, banking toward the mission.”

He leans back, a knowing smirk on his face. “That feeling? One of the few things I miss from my time there.”

One hour later, we were above Bulgaria at 36,000 feet. The sky was a literal highway of jets coming and going—U.S. Navy, Turkish Air Force, Greeks, Syrians, Israelis, Jordanians, Egyptians. You name it, they were there.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Our target—my wingman and I—was a Crab fuel dump. Taking them out was easy enough in theory, but getting within range meant dropping low, right into the reach of the Banshees. You had one shot—miss, and you’d have to fly through hell to get another. So we lined up, took our shot, and then full throttle back to 36,000 feet, where they couldn’t reach us.

Bill pauses, looking outside as a group of kids runs by, laughing. He suddenly yells at them before shaking his head. “They keep messing with my dog, those little…” he mutters before refocusing on the story.

“The clouds—normally, we had optics to see through them, but this wasn’t a normal cloud. The fuel they used evaporated into an aerosol mist, pure particulate matter that turned our sensors blind. We crossed into Romania, heading for the Banshee refueling posts. Our close air support needed them gone to operate freely.

“My wingman was mostly there to cover us. He didn’t have air-to-ground capabilities—just AIM-9s and AIM-120s for defense. I got low enough and muttered a quick prayer.”

I asked him, “Why not just fire a cruise missile at them?”

He shrugged. “Simple. Didn’t have enough. Had we known earlier, we would’ve saved them for this. Satellites spotted the dumps easily, but by then, we were out of missiles. Everything had been used to slow the Crabs down. We had no choice but to go in manually.”

Bill leaned forward. “Dropped altitude again, arguing with Camel, my WSO, that surely we were low enough now for his optics to do their job. Nope. Lower still. Finally got on target. He ran his checklist, I felt the plane shudder, and our two Paveway bombs were away.

“Thirty seconds. Camel counted down as we climbed. That’s when I saw it—just out of the corner of my eye. From a distance, it looked like a satellite launch coming from the fuel dump. Smaller. Faster. But I knew exactly what it was.”

He shakes his head, eyes narrowing. “Lost track of it as the sky lit up like a second sun from the fuel dump exploding. That thing was a lake the size of a village, and if you were on the ground, you had to be kilometers away to avoid hearing damage.

Then, the radio crackled. ‘Bandit! Two o’clock, 2 miles, high, HOT!’ I yelled. I knew right then—the Banshee had enough fuel to chase us all the way up.

“If he’d just been patrolling, we would’ve been fine. But that V-shaped metal casket had just enough juice to cut us in two. And that’s exactly what happened to Hugh and Gator.

“Gone in a second. No time to eject. Just a clean slice from below.”

Bill’s voice trails off for a moment before he exhales. “War’s like that. One second you’re flying. The next, you’re a name on a plaque in the squadron’s bar and on your kids pension checks from the government.”

He looks at his dog as he enters the living room. A bastard mix with the same sad look on Bill’s face as he gets close to him and rest his head on Bill’s knee.

I reacted quickly. I jettisoned my fuel tanks, pulled the stick, and shot straight into the sky, chasing after the first Banshee that had taken down my wingman. Full throttle—there was no room to stall. I knew the second Banshee from earlier was closing in. From this angle, the Banshees were as blind as bats. The pilot inside could only see above and in front, not behind. I didn’t have the angle to see him clearly either. All I could spot was what we assumed was the exhaust nozzle.

The AIM-9 Sidewinder was practically begging to be launched, its growling noise telling me it was ready. But I held off. I knew what was coming. The Banshee dropped back towards the Earth—though "dropped" didn’t quite capture it. It executed a brutal 20G maneuver to reverse its climb. A shot from the Sidewinder wouldn’t have a chance. I had to wait for it to lose its speed, then spun around and dove straight toward it. As the Banshee slowed, I let the Sidewinder loose. Less than five seconds later, it hit. The explosion was textbook—just like taking out any other jet.

"Do you see the other one?" Camel shouted as we both focused on the first Banshee. I knew it was well on its way, and I had only a few seconds to react.

"Fuck it!" I yelled. We were at about 4,000 feet. Against Camel’s frantic cries, I initiated a pedal turn, a quick maneuver to lose altitude. I couldn’t get a visual on the second Banshee in time, so I had to descend fast and hope I could dodge it.

Thank God we missed it by about a hundred meters—at least, that’s what I guessed. I saw it flash by, felt the rush of adrenaline, and fought to stop my descent. Full throttle again as I battled with the G-force and the hydraulic systems. If we made it back, the mechanics would probably throw us off the carrier for all the damage we’d cause.

The Banshee had turned its back to us again. We were down to just 2,000 feet, and I was still chasing it—didn’t care about direction, ignoring calls from command and the AWACS. The bastard was running low on fuel, but I wasn’t about to take my eyes off it. The Sidewinder growled again, ready for another shot. The missile was practically begging me to take the shot, its growl vibrating through the cockpit, its seeker locking onto the heat signature of the enemy aircraft.

I kept closing the distance. The Banshee’s engines were sputtering, and I could see it slowly losing power as its fuel ran out. Its turns were sluggish now, not the quick, sharp manoeuvres it had pulled earlier. The moment was coming. I lined up my sights, steadying the plane, the missile locked in, ready to strike.

Then, I hit the button.

The Sidewinder shot forward with a sharp hiss, cutting through the air with terrifying speed. The Banshee didn’t even have time to react. In less than three seconds, the missile connected. A brilliant explosion engulfed the enemy aircraft, a massive fireball erupting from its engines as the impact tore it apart. The Banshee’s wings shredded, its fuselage disintegrating in a violent burst of flame and debris. The sky around me lit up for a brief, blinding moment before it fell into nothing but smoke and wreckage.

"Splash one" It was over.

We circled back. Tried to spot if there was any chute from Hugh and Gator. Of course there wasn’t. Even if there was, doubt we could send anyone to pick them, we were deep in crab territory.

We had been trained for long range engaments. Firing missiles at jets so far away you couldn’t see them with the naked eye, and here we were in roller coaster dogfights against some flying lunatics that wanted to ram us.

You’ve ever seen a banshee up close?” He asks me.

“Never had the pleasure.” I answer.

“Back in Italy. We were shown one up close at an air force base. You know they weld the crab inside of it alive? They pick the ones who are born deformed, hook them up to machines before locking them inside their iron coffin. There was no way out for them, and unless they managed to land safely back inside their fuel pools they were doomed. And if they did land they were just refueling for another joyride. Talk about a motivated enemy.