//------------------------------//
// Imports 
// Story: Nearing the Edge 
// by Eagle 
//------------------------------//

September 29th, 2005
13:30 Hours
Everfree Air Base

Of all the contraptions and contrivances devised by man in his long stay on this Earth, none quite matched the airplane in design. He could learn to walk and run and swim, but the illustrious talent of flight was never given by God; this was something he expected us to create for ourselves. To what can be assumed to be his great pride, this was accomplished in the most powerful and beautiful fashion. A plane at first carried men skyward amongst the birds and evolved quickly to where man surpassed those who had this natural ability, going higher and faster than the winged creatures he had looked up to for so long.

The jet in particular was the epitome of these principles; as if to pay honor the many of these muses. It carried men as high and quick as the greatest of raptors, riding through the clouds and calling out as loud as the thunder that inhabited them.  Along with it came power that was greater than the strongest of men across any land, and a sleekness that, to one in the right mind, held an allure superior to even the most gorgeous women.

Cole had always seen it in this way, and now had the honor of introducing a friend to it as well. He reached out a hand to run it along the light-grey nose cone of the Falcon, the fighter giving the youthful glow of a bird that had come right off the production line. Perhaps that glow came from the sun shining off the fresh paint that coated the jet as it sat on the flight ramp. Whatever it was, there was a clear allure to it; unfortunately, he would not be the one flying it.

“Wow! This one’s mine!? Really!?”

“Would I lie to you about something like this Dash?” he asked the pegasus, her wide-eyes filled with stars.

“I can’t believe I get to fly this!” she jumped, zipping over and around the F-16 to take in every piece of it.

Cole could not help but smile over the joy Rainbow found in first seeing her new aircraft. It was like a father watching his daughter open a Christmas gift, with every drop of warm-hearted satisfaction coming with it. Realizing that, it then came off as a bit odd, perhaps sadistic, to Cole that people would be so thrilled over being able to operate massive weapons of war, but he shrugged it off. The satisfaction came from the flying, and even through the adrenaline of fighting, that must have just been who they were on the inside. Loving battles and hating war, coming off almost as hypocritical but it made sense somehow.

“Not just you, your whole squadron’s outfitted with the sixteens,” Cole clarified, “one of several units, from what I’ve heard.”

Dash was too obsessed with the jet to care much, landing to walk along the fuselage. Though Dash was thrilled to have her favorite jet, it did not surprise Cole too much. The Fighting Falcon was the most exported fighter the U.S. had. As with those hundreds sold to other nations about the Earth, it was not the exact same as the kind the Americans operated.

This specific variant was the F-16P, designed to better accommodate its Equestrian pilots. It did not have all the bells and whistles of the American’s more effective C Falcons, but they were not lacking very much. On the outside, it was virtually identical, save for the slightly remodeled cockpit. America would be supplying the Royal Equestrian Air Force with these until Equestria’s own industry could be built and cranked up. From what Spitfire told him they were already looking forward to planes being built by their own hooves, the PF-16, basically the same but built natively. The military always was specific when it came to names.

“I’m glad you’re enthusiastic about it, we’ll have to start teaching you how to fly properly. A jet’s very different from a pair of wings, I’m sure.”

“No sweat! Just watch, before you know it you and me will be flying all the way to Sombra’s front door!” Rainbow assured him.

“Let’s worry about flying before fighting,” Cole suggested. “Need to learn to walk before you can run and all that.”

“Heh, you think? ‘Cause I learned to fly before I learned to run!”

“You know what I mean,” Cole pressed, grinning a bit.

Before he could continue, the familiar sound of jet engines cut through Everfree Air Base. It sounded slightly different from what Cole was used to though, have a sort of continuous cracking yell to it than the smoother sounds of others. On top of that there were a number of the sounds filling the air, seemingly dozens of them.

Cole looked up and around, quickly spotting the noticeable and welcome sight of an aircraft he had not encountered for years. A large squadron of F-22s, the deadliest fighter aircraft in the world, flew close to the base as they prepared to land, the light bouncing off the strikingly smooth hull like a mirror. There was no question as to their nationality. The Raptors only came from one nation, their homeland, in the U.S.; no other nation had access to them. Despite the bright reflection Cole could make out a large ‘FF’ on the side of their rudders, confirming that they were the unit he had been expecting.

“I have to go greet our new guests Rainbow, try not to break your new toy.”

Cole began walking down the runway to the opposite end, where the Raptors were landing. The heat of the midday sun made it feel like a longer walk than usual, especially with the cloudless sky. Still, it was nothing to complain about; Cole had more important things on his mind. Not only had they began re-equipping and training the Equestrians, but the rest of the Air Force was showing up. After what seemed like a mild eternity of staving off the tide in solus, the 1st would finally get reinforcements to help them. They would get a breather, there would be less threat, and most importantly, they were no longer alone out here.

Some of the first F-22s were already parked by the time he had reached the end of the runway. Their pilots had already dismounted, including their commander, a hazel-eyed, brown-haired, Colonel that seemed a bit too tall to be a pilot. Cole went up to him first, following the same greeting process as he had a thousand times before.

“Good morning, Sir,” he greeted, welcoming the Colonel to the airbase.

Cole observed his face as he returned the hail, seeing a sculpted feature that gave off a rather stony-faced vibe on its own. The low voice and the general serious expression made Cole wonder briefly if this man ever sincerely smiled. This theory was quickly disproven as the Colonel introduced himself.

“Colonel Ulrich, 94th Fighter Squadron, here to throw our hats in the ring,” he boasted, his countenance immediately changing with a beaming, straight-toothed smile as he proudly tacked on his squadron’s motto on the end. “Guess you’re one of the guys that have been saving the day over here, huh?”

“That’d be us, Sir,” Cole affirmed. “Captain Cole, 1st Tactical Fighter Squadron commander.”

“A Captain!? I honestly thought it was a mistype when I read the letter,” Ulrich repeated surprisingly while putting out his hand to shake Cole’s. 

“Did they pull you out of the Guard?"

Cole simply shook his hand rather than respond to the comment.

“We’ve got a fully-operational air base here at Everfree with all the works. I could show you around if you’d like.”

“Sounds fine, you all must have been very busy,” Ulrich noticed, pinching his chin a bit. “You must not even have time to shave!”

Cole ran a quick hand under his chin and mentally swore feeling the prickle of hair stubs, trying to ignore this as he, once more, got back to explaining the situation to the Colonel.





Sergeant Charro shifted around in the warm midday sun, trying to straighten out the shirt below his blouse. The new uniform may have been more comfortable than metal, but wearing so much clothing for so long still took some getting used to. He did not complain outwardly, as it was an improvement from the first one he had received.

The first uniforms they had received from the Americans did not fit, which was unsurprising since they had little; they even shipped the Equestrians with ample numbers of socks and shoes in accordance with their own variants. Needless to say putting boots on hooves was pointless, and they were quickly abandoned. It was just one of several pieces adapted or changed by the Equestrians to try and adapt the clothing. The unicorn in his squadron, Backscatter, followed the trend of many others and cut a hole in his cap to allow his horn access. Regardless of ingenuity, it turned into a bit of a logistical disaster.

Thankfully this was recognized quickly, and the Equestrians began to create their own with the advice of the Americans. He had heard that a designer in Ponyville had sent in the type that was used, one that was more tailored to ponies and worked much better. Still, there was much learning to do, particularly in the area of camouflage. The Equestrians chose to pick their own camo pattern and were experimenting with all kinds of variants, and it was not uncommon to see some units using the American’s multicam and others using plain green uniforms in the form of Olive Drab. He, along with much of his unit, wore a design called Tiger Stripe, which was much more flowing than the digital American camouflage.

The ponies he and Ferrus were talking to now, however, wore uniforms of plain butternut brown. They were not the best suited for forest warfare, but considering they were tankers they did not seem to mind much. In fact, they were not even Equestrians, they were Koniks, stockier and slicker than the average Equestrian. Hailing from Koniknarod, a nation that was one of the first to fall to the Griffons, they were some of the last ponies that could fight for their lost home, a trait held in common with most of the exile forces.

“There is a small river that flows through my town, through the grassland it sits on. We used to hold a yearly festival on its banks, the commemoration of the town’s founding,” the tank’s commander, a Sergeant named Iskra recounted. “There would be food and music and we would go swimming. There would always be streamers and many colorful kites flown from the river, I miss those the most.”

“It sounds beautiful, I’d love to come for one of them,” Ferrus, one of Charro’s squad mates, replied.

“Of course, all are welcome to my hometown! But not the uninvited kurczak,” the Konik said, tapping on their slur of Griffons on with noticeable spite. “Someday we will kick our unwanted guests from our fatherland, and then I will happily show you its beauty. I only hope it is still there when… if we arrive.”

“Cheer up Sierżant! You act like it will never happen!” another pony called, popping up through the hatch of the Challenger tank.

The actual equipment being used by the allied forces tended to vary as much as their nationality, at least with the exile units. The different armies bought and borrowed what equipment they could afford. Much of the reserve of Koniknarod that had escaped and been paid to the United Kingdom, taking up their special offer to spend it for the armament of their remaining army.

It was sad to know that the soldiers were not paid, and only met ends with Equestria’s help, but they could live with some confidence knowing they were so well equipped. There was not much better than British weaponry in the world. Still, it took time to get adjusted, with the Konik loader that had just popped up being one of the many trying to adjust to this new form of warfare. He was here for additional training along with many other forces. That included including Char’s unit, which was broken up and taking turns in groups for the work, with the free groups just trying to pass the time.

Backscatter was off talking to another tank crew from a different nation, a group of Unionists. It felt strange to Char to see the two in the same place; the two countries could not have been more different, right down to their geography. Koniknarod lay on the northwestern half of the continent along the sea, and the Union was on the southeast shore. Now they were all homeless, warrior refugees with a common goal. He now took notice that Backscatter himself was coming over along with one of the Union tankers.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Char asked Backscatter before he could even reach them.

“Wrong? Nothing, it’s just our turn for shooting,” the unicorn responded.

“And I am here to tell you that our own training is beginning again,” the Unionist gestured to the Konik in a rather blunt tone.

“Something wrong?” Backscatter asked, in reference to his attitude.

“He is just upset that we are the better tank crew!” Iskra answered, much to the Unionist’s ire.

“The only thing that upsets me is arrogance.”

“It could only be arrogance if it was not proven!”

“And you have yet to prove it! Our training is not complete yet!”

“I think we better head off, let them settle this,” Char whispered to Ferrus, who quickly nodded his head in agreement. “Come on Backscatter, let’s get going!”

The three headed over to what passed for a firing range, consisting of little more than a couple of fold-out tables for the weapons to lie on and a wooden board that indicated the start of the range. For all of its gargantuan budget and great spending the U.S. military still saved money where they could, or at least tried to save. This particular example was a success though, looking to have been provided with the chump change of the more vital projects. Regardless, the simple atmosphere would not be very detrimental to the lesson.

Along with them were five other ponies that Char did not know, and an American Sergeant along with a Private and Corporal who had spent most of the soggy morning teaching ponies.

“Alright now, settle down,” the Sergeant asked to the group with a standout drawl. “I’m Sergeant Andrew, I’ll be helping ya’ll practice with firearms today.”

Char could not help but notice that the Sergeant’s name actually read ‘Carlton’ on his uniform, but did not think anything of it.

“This here is Private Daniel,” he said, patting the shoulder of the soldier next to him, “and over there, loading the rounds in the magazines, that’s Corporal Petrov. They’re gonna be helping me with class. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds good,” Char responded as the other ponies remained silent.

“Great! You fired a weapon before?” Andrew asked, to which Char simply nodded. “Then how’s about you come up first? It’ll be a nice demonstration for the rest.”

Initially Char thought it was some basic punishment for being the only one to speak up, as if he had unknowingly volunteered. Contrary to that, the Sergeant gave off a grin and a warm composure, one that felt almost fatherly, as if he were teaching one from his own family. He figured the American would have been sick of training clueless ponies all morning, but he did not seem to have any issues.  

Petrov handed him an M-16, the main assault rifle the Americans used, along with a single magazine. The Corporal kept an eye on him until after he had successfully connected the magazine without trouble and then picked up a rifle for himself. Both went around the tables to the front of the firing line, with Private Daniel following.

“Alright, now I’m not specialized in training, but there’s a whole lot of you to retrain and not too many of us,” Andrew started off. “For right now we’ll just be getting ya’ll acquainted with shooting firearms. Your friend here, what’s your name?”

“Sergeant Charro.”

“Charro’s going to be shooting to give you guys a kind of example of how ya’ll shoot, and any flaws we find we’ll point out. Meanwhile Corporal Petrov is going to be shooting himself for comparison, to show how we do it. Got any questions so far?”

The group retained their state of silence.

“Ok then, let’s get started!” the American announced, pointing down range. “Sergeant, you see that tree down there with the big red spot painted on it, the one sticking out a little in front of the tree line? You aim for that.”

“Understood, I’ll give it a shot,” Char responded, not intending to have delivered a pun.

“Range is hot, fire when ready!”

Truth be told, Char had fired an M-16 before, but was rather poor with it, something he had failed to mention. Regardless, he tried to stand in the proper position, in an awkward look on his hind legs with a serious lean forward. He picked the weapon up until it was comfortable on his shoulder, but rather low, well under the chin, the way it felt most likely for him. He tried his best to aim for the far-off trunk as he loosed two three-round bursts from the weapon, to no apparent effect.

“I thought you said you had fired a gun before,” Andrew asked in confusion.

“I did, this is how I fired it.”

“You shot from the hip? Where were you trained, Hollywood?” the Sergeant joked, still in a somewhat lighthearted manner. “Straighten him out, Danny.”

The Private complied, pushing the gun up till the pony could look down the sights. He pulled it back into Char’s shoulder, ensuring it was well grounded, and then pushing his standing legs apart a bit to ensure better balance. Char shuffled a bit, trying to get comfortable in the new stance while not breaking it.

Standing upright was not too difficult for ponies that had been trained to use crossbows, but this still felt awkward for Char. It was not to terribly different from the crossbow stance, but it was more the recoil he was afraid of. He knew of the power a rifle could give off, and was not keen on receiving a metallic punch to the snout.

“Alright, good, now hold it just like that,” Andrew ordered, turning to Petrov. “Corporal, could put a few rounds into the target? Rest of you keep an eye on him, see how it’s done.”

The soldier nodded in compliance, bringing his own weapon to bear with a natural ease in stark contrast to Charro’s. Two seconds later he fired off a round at the tree with a loud crack, a puff of dust from the target indicating a hit. He loosed a few more before Andrew gave him the call to cease fire.

“Your turn,” the Sergeant told Char. “Give it a shot.”

The pony looked down the length of the gun, trying to keep it steady as he grew weary. He tried aiming at the tree, but kept looking back at the charging handle, fearful that it would fly back and strike him. It took some time to actually get up to pulling the trigger, squeezing it slowly till there was popping sound that he winced at. He felt the gun push back into his shoulder and kick up a bit, but nothing hit him. Looking back at the tree, he saw a dissipating cloud of dust on the right end of the trunk.

“Good job!” Andrew complemented, satisfied with the result. “Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“No, not too bad,” Charro agreed in repetition.

“You still need some practice, but you’re on your way. For now let’s get the rest of you sorted out, same as you. So who wants to go next?”