Maverick toggled his mic. “Knighthawk 201, roger.”
He glanced around the cockpit, scanning the displays. The radar screen showed the friendly formation maintaining position, each blip representing one of his squadron members. To his right, Slider's Super Hornet maintained a steady formation.
“Knighthawk 202, fuel check,” Maverick asked.
“Knighthawk 202, fuel state 8.0,” Slider replied.
“Copy. All Knighthawks, maintain formation. Watchdog, any additional intel on enemy air assets?”
After a brief pause, Watchdog’s voice crackled through the headset again. “Knighthawk 201, be advised: enemy air assets include Antares fighters and Sirius dive bombers, supported by Rigel torpedo bombers. They are heading towards your position.”
Maverick felt a surge of confidence. World War II-era monoplanes stood no chance against modern air superiority fighters and missiles. The Gra Valkans were, for all intents and purposes, cooked. This was going to be straightforward. “Knighthawk 201, copy. Any changes with the surface fleet?”
“Negative, Knighthawk 201. The fleet is still maintaining its current course and heading. Continue to rally point Bravo and stand by for further instructions.”
“Roger. Knighthawk 201 out.” Maverick switched to the squadron channel. “All Knighthawks, proceed to rally point Bravo. Maintain radio silence unless mission critical.”
The Super Hornets banked slightly, adjusting their course towards rally point Bravo. The sky remained clear, and Maverick’s eyes darted between the horizon and his instruments. There wasn’t much to do in the middle of this down time aside from think and admire the scenery outside. There wasn’t really anything special to the glittering ocean below; he’d already seen it all. That only left thinking.
What was there to think about? The upcoming engagement didn’t require any more of his mind than the autopilot he was currently running on. Maybe the magic adaptation Hudgens was talking about? He smirked. Well, he supposed it would be pretty interesting to have magic powers. Who knew how long it would take, though? Having a smidgen of mana wasn’t the same as being able to fly around like Superman.
As they approached the rally point, Watchdog’s voice broke the silence. “Knighthawk 201, update: enemy fleet moving at 15 knots, heading 070. Prepare to acquire targets.”
“Roger, Watchdog. All Knighthawks, prepare for target acquisition. Stay tight.”
The aircraft adjusted their formation, optimizing for the engagement. Maverick’s heart rate remained steady. He glanced at the AN/APG-79 radar screen, identifying the Gra Valkan ships as distinct blips. The radar display provided detailed information on each target's range, bearing, and speed, marking them with unique identifiers for easy tracking.
The Gra Valkan fleet had the standard composition of a Conquest Fleet: 10 Pegasus-class fleet carriers, 25 Cygnus-class escort carriers, 20 battleships, and dozens of cruisers and hundreds of destroyers. It was a ridiculously large force; impossible by Earth’s standards, even at the height of World War 2, but a reality by Yggdran standards.
From what Maverick had heard, the Gra Valkans had gone much further than the Germans, even getting close to conquering their entire home planet. The loss of one Conquest Fleet should’ve been enough to force capitulation – that is, if the Gra Valkans had sensible leadership. The Germans fought to the bitter end, even when presented with a clear losing outcome, and the Japanese almost did the same. Would the Gra Valkans be any different?
“Knighthawk 202, confirm radar contact on targets?"
“Affirmative, 201. Targets in sight.”
Maverick took a deep breath. “All Knighthawks, ready for target acquisition. On my mark.”
His eyes locked on the AN/APG-79 radar screen as the enemy fleet's blips became more defined, each marked with range and bearing.
“Mark!” he commanded, and the radar lock indicators confirmed the targets.
“Knighthawk 201, target acquired. Preparing for launch.” Maverick toggled his weapons systems, arming the LRASMs.
“All Knighthawks, Bruiser on my count. Three... Two... One... Bruiser!”
The LRASMs shot off from each Super Hornet, causing a slight shudder through the airframe. Maverick felt the jolt as the missiles left their rails, the initial burst of acceleration pushing them forward in a fiery blaze. He watched the trails of smoke as the missiles streaked towards the Gra Valkan ships, their boosters igniting and propelling them at high speed.
As the missiles climbed and disappeared over the horizon, Maverick kept his eyes on the Multi-Function Display (MFD), watching real-time updates as the missiles adjusted their trajectories. The LRASMs’ advanced guidance systems activated, switching to onboard sensors and establishing a data-link connection with the aircraft.
The missile paths shifted slightly, fine-tuning their approach based on continuous data-link updates and sensor input. Maverick could see the targeting data being fed back, each missile locking onto its designated ship. The enemy vessels didn’t react at all to the missiles; they probably wouldn’t know until the missiles were right on top of them. There was nothing they could do against modern technology; their only hope of salvation was surrender, but that time had long since passed.
“Missiles away,” Slider's voice crackled in his ear. “All systems green.”
“Roger that.” Maverick's eyes flicked between the radar display and the horizon. “Watchdog, Knighthawk 201. LRASMs deployed. Maintaining radar lock for mid-course updates.”
“Copy, Knighthawk 201. Target data received. Monitoring missile flight paths,” Watchdog responded.
Maverick kept the squadron in formation, scanning the horizon for any potential threats. His grip tightened on the controls as he processed Watchdog’s continuous updates, which provided intel on enemy movements. The aircraft their carriers had launched seemed to be part of a standard first wave – no indication that the Gra Valkans knew they were coming for them. Their tactics, while probably effective against a peer or near-peer opponent, were careless against them. He almost felt bad for them. Lambs to the slaughter.
The radar showed the enemy ships maintaining their course, unaware of the incoming threat. The LRASMs responded to every slight movement of the targets, their paths curving subtly to maintain optimal targeting.
As the missiles neared their targets, Maverick focused on the radar blips. He watched intently as the distance closed rapidly, the MFD showing the final approach phase. The missiles’ onboard sensors activated for terminal guidance, locking onto the critical sections of the ships. The LRASMs hit the ships in synchronized impacts, flares erupting on his display.
“Impact in three... two... one...” Maverick counted down, watching the radar blips flare and then disappear. Each vanishing blip signified a direct hit, confirming the effectiveness of their strike.
“Direct hits on all targets,” Watchdog confirmed. “Enemy ships neutralized. Excellent work, Knighthawks.”
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Maverick felt a surge of relief, possibly excitement. After all, this success meant he was now officially a fleet ace. "Roger, Watchdog." He toggled the squadron channel. “All Knighthawks, begin egress to rally point Charlie. Maintain combat spread and keep your heads on a swivel.”
The Super Hornets executed a tactical turn, putting distance between themselves and the enemy fleet. Maverick scanned his instruments and the surrounding airspace, vigilant for any threats. He doubted there would be any, but in a world of magic, who knew when some random bullshit might come up?
"Knighthawk 201, Knighthawk 202. Fuel state 5.0," Slider reported.
The other Knighthawks reported in with similar fuel states, confirming they had sufficient fuel to reach the carrier.
"Knighthawk 201, Texaco 1. We're on station at your 12 o'clock, 50 miles. Say intentions," the tanker crew announced.
Maverick assessed his squadron's fuel state and the distance to the carrier. "Texaco 1, Knighthawk 201. We're good on fuel. Thanks for the offer, we'll proceed directly to mother."
"Roger, Knighthawk 201. We'll be on station if you need us. Texaco 1 out."
As they flew towards the carrier, Maverick contacted the E-2D Hawkeye. "Watchdog, Knighthawk 201. Request picture update."
"Knighthawk 201, Watchdog. Picture is clean. No threats observed. You're cleared for recovery."
"Knighthawk 201 copies. The Knighthawks are proceeding to marshal for recovery," Maverick acknowledged.
Approaching the carrier's airspace, Maverick contacted the Air Officer. "Marshal, Knighthawk 201. The Knighthawks squadron, 12 F/A-18Es, approaching the marshal stack."
"Knighthawk 201, Marshal. The Knighthawks are cleared for recovery. Proceed to approach at your discretion," the Air Officer directed.
"Cleared for recovery, Knighthawk 201," Maverick confirmed.
Maverick entered the landing pattern, focusing on maintaining proper spacing and preparing for his approach.
"Knighthawk 202, ball, 6.8," Slider reported as he sighted the optical landing system.
"Roger, ball," the LSO acknowledged.
Maverick watched as, one by one, his squadron mates trapped, their tailhooks snagging the arresting wires with precision.
"Knighthawk 201, ball, 6.5," Maverick called, eyes locked on the meatball as he guided his Super Hornet onto the pitching deck.
The jet slammed down onto the deck, the arresting gear pulling it to a stop.
"Knighthawk 201, Paddles. Nice pass. Taxi clear of the landing area," the LSO directed.
Maverick taxied his jet to the designated parking spot, completed his post-flight checks, and shut down the engines. He descended to the flight deck, where his squadron mates were gathering.
"Knighthawks, nice work out there," Maverick said. "Debrief in ready room six in 30 mikes."
As the pilots dispersed to complete their post-flight duties, Maverick could feel the adrenaline of the mission slowly fading. He knew the debrief would be thorough, examining every aspect of the engagement to learn and improve.
"Congrats on the fleet ace status, Mav," Slider grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Drinks are on you tonight."
Maverick laughed, the weight of the mission finally lifting. "Aw, what the hell? Why me? Everyone got fleet ace status."
“Well, yeah, but you’re 201,” Slider replied. “Gotta celebrate that leadership.”
Maverick shook his head with a smile. “Alright, alright. First round’s on me. Only the first, though, alright?”
– –
Artticus Ocean, en route to Mykal
IGVN Third Conquest Fleet
Grade Atlastar-class Battleship GVS Eridanus
Fleet Admiral Vustok listened intently as the technician from the Bureau of Information’s Technology Division explained the new upgrades.
“... determined, through a combination of smuggled books and data obtained from their ‘Internet’, that American missiles rely heavily on radar and infrared targeting. Their early missile designs were particularly susceptible to countermeasures that confused their radar and infrared systems.”
Admiral Vustok examined some documents that the technician produced. He couldn’t understand much of the math and design, but he could trust in the consistent results that the Bureau of Information was known to achieve. “How do they work?”
“To disrupt their radar targeting, we have chaff launchers – they’ll throw out precisely engineered metal strips that will create a massive radar signature to confuse the systems. As for their infrared targeting, we have flares to draw their missiles away from their intended targets.”
The technician paused, a proud smile spreading across his face. "We've also incorporated a randomized deployment pattern for the chaff and flares, making it nearly impossible for the American missiles to filter out the decoys. Truly, it’s yet another instance of the ingenuity and superiority of Gra Valkan engineering."
Admiral Vustok nodded, a sense of pride swelling within his chest. “Impressive. So you’re saying that even if they’ve made some improvements, their missiles still fundamentally rely on the same principles as before?”
"Exactly, Admiral," the technician confirmed. "While they may have made incremental updates, we are confident that our countermeasures will render their missiles ineffective. The Americans have no idea what they're up against."
“If only the other fleets could have been equipped with such genius measures… The Americans won’t stand a chance against our –”
Suddenly, a young officer burst onto the bridge. The look on his face suggested an emergency, and his words confirmed it. “Admiral! Incoming missiles, closing fast on our position!”
The technician placed a hand on Admiral Vustok's shoulder, a reassuring smile on his face. "Not to worry, Admiral. Our new defenses will make short work of those missiles. The Americans will be in for a surprise."
Admiral Vustok returned the smile, his confidence in Gra Valkan innovation unwavering. "Of course. The might of our empire shall not be challenged."
Outside, the chaff and flares deployed, filling the sky with a dazzling display of light and glittering metal fragments. The bridge crew watched in anticipation, waiting for the inevitable triumph of their advanced technology.
But the triumph never came.
He could barely see the missiles flying in; just a distortion, a blur in the corner of his vision. The only cue they gave was that chilling, eerie sound. They cut through the chaff and flares like nothing, as if their countermeasures were nonexistent. Then, they slammed into their targets. Blast after blast, each one spelling the end for a prized carrier.
How? HOW? It made no sense. They had the Empire's best and brightest on the task! The Bureau of Information had a perfect track record, so how?!
Vustok gripped the console until his knuckles turned white, his mind racing. This couldn't be real. It had to be some kind of twisted nightmare, a sick joke played by the gods of war. Yet, the flames, the smoke, the screams of the dying, the chaos around them… it was no joke at all. This was, indeed, reality – a nightmare come to life.
“Impossible!” the technician cried out. “Im-impossible!”
Vustok glanced at him, unsure of his own feelings. They had been so sure, so confident in their own might. He had been so sure. The Bureau had promised them victory, had assured them that the Americans were nothing more than paper tigers, and he believed them. But now, as the missiles continued to rain down upon them, as the once-proud ships of the Third Conquest Fleet were reduced to burning husks, he realized the bitter truth. They were fools.
He lowered his head, angry but empty at the same time. Was he mad at him, for failing to meet expectations? Was he mad at himself, for being such an ignorant, gullible fool? Was he mad at the Americans, for their unfair advantages? He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all. Despite this, he felt like he had no energy. Was this the feeling of defeat? Despair?
Limbs numb, mind disconnected, thoughts fragmented, perspective detached. It was like he wasn’t himself, like he was simply piloting his body. This insidious feeling, it could only be one thing. He blinked, trying to focus. He was in shock. The awareness came like a slap, jolting him slightly back to the present. He needed to get a grip.
Turning to his communication officer, he managed a weak order – the only one he could possibly give in this situation. “Contact the Americans on the frequency they provided earlier. We will declare surrender.”