Nearing the Edge

by Eagle


Red Flag Part Three

February 13th, 2006
Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
1040 Hours

Red Flag was beginning to reach its conclusion, and it looked as though it had accomplished its mission. The general consensus was that the two Equestrian squadrons, though not exceptional, were more than competent and ready to fight if needed. With some more time, there was hope that the rest of the Royal Equestrian Air Force would reach a similar standard.

The briefing for the day was to take longer than usual, as there was some important information that needed to be shared. An American Air Force major, whose few strands of visible silvery hair were betraying his age, stood before the grouping of unit commanders in the auditorium. Behind him a large projection slide flipped through a list of aircraft belonging to the Bloc militaries, each containing a picture, name, and list of important information, all in neat bulleted format.

“This next part is some pretty important new information we’ve gotten, so if you haven’t been taking notes already I’d suggest you start now,” his voice commanded, prompting Dash and a few others to take out their notepads after neglecting them before. “Intelligence has put together a good picture that shows a massive buildup in new aircraft types from all three of these nations. They’re based largely on old Soviet designs that never went into production, but it’s doubtful they have the exact same abilities and specifications as the originals. So far we have been able to identify the following.”

He paused for a moment, allowing the next slide to flip on, before continuing.

“The majority of their buildup has been taken up by bomber aircraft. Il-54 design, codename ‘Blowlamp’, transonic bomber. M-50, ‘Bounder’, large-scale strategic bomber capable of supersonic. Two dedicated high speed and altitude supersonic bomber designs, the T-4 and the T-60S, codenames ‘Balloon’ and ‘Barrel’ respectively.

“These are followed by three new ground attack aircraft. The odd sawed-off looking one on the left is the Il-40 ‘Brawny’, the middle is the Il-102 ‘Blacksmoke’.  Last one’s actually a Romanian design, the IAR-93 ‘Buzzard’. There are only two new fighter aircraft designs we’ve discovered so far: ‘Flipper’ and ‘Fixture’, the La-250 interceptor and the Ye-8 fighter.

“All of this points to a heavy usage of airpower to attack our ground forces on both a tactical and strategic scale. We’re not sure just how sure how far along the production of these are or how many they intend to make. Just know that you’ll probably be seeing them up there before too long.

“Now, we’ll get into the mission for today,” the Major moved on, now focusing on the training for the day. “There’s not going to be any actual engagements, because we’re focusing more on maneuvering and bringing the real world into this. We’ll be firing actual shots this time instead of just simulating through lock-on, and you all will be avoiding them through maneuvering and countermeasures.”

“What!?” Dash thought to herself.

“Needless to say they’re not active missiles,” he continued, as if he had heard her worry. “They don’t have warheads on them. In fact they’re generally far less capable than the average missile. They can’t track as well and are slowed down to where, even if they did impact the aircraft, they wouldn’t do significant damage. That being said the whole purpose of this exercise is to not get hit. Sounds simple enough right? We’ll see if you can dodge the real thing today.”


Dash waited amongst a number of other aircraft that were in a holding position over the desert. Each one waited their turn over the range to have one of the training missiles fired at them. They would be going one at a time so as to minimize chances of accidents and provide maximum control and space to the pilots.

It was concerning to her that actual physical shots were being fired at the aircraft. The Americans assured all that even if the missile impacted the damage to the plane would be negligible, with some claiming that the planes themselves could simply fly faster to avoid them. Still, the idea of one of the missiles flying into a critical area like the air intake was worrying. A long string of bad luck could lead to the death of a pilot, though that was not too different from the real world.

At some point in their career, should war break out, there would come the time that they were shot at with actual weapons. Vital and extensive as training was, it could never fully prepare one for the shock and feel of first combat; only with experience could one hope to become truly accustomed to it. Assuming that day would come, the commanders did not wish the shock to be overwhelming. They wanted the first shots to be fired at the troops in a controlled environment.

So far half of the aircraft scheduled for the day had completed their turns. None of them had been struck by missiles, which gave a positive sign for the remainder of the pilots. Now it was Dash’s turn as the last aircraft of the squadron before them exited the area, and she was called up to begin her turn.

“Rainbow lead, Lincoln. Are all your instruments operating properly, over?” the AWACS called in.

“Affirmative, over,” she answered simply.

“You’re up first. Adjust your course and head over the range. Once there you’ll be fired upon with ground-launched missiles from a healthy distance; one infra-red, one radar-guided. Use countermeasures and whatever else is needed to evade them. Lincoln out.”

Dash complied with the order, changing her direction and flying away from the rest of the planes and leaving her squadron and friends behind. Before long she was the only plane in the sky, and the solitary ride enacted its own effects on her anxiety. There would be no call to her when the missile was launched, she simply had to watch for it and listen for the warning system.

The desire to finish the exercise began to overtake her, and her speed increased progressively as she flew across the range. The seconds ticked away and no missiles were spotted, with nothing more than the muffled noises of the engine and her heartbeat. Her eyes constantly moved back and forth and side to side, unsure of exactly where the shots would come from, other than the ground.

Finally, her efforts were rewarded when she spotted something out of the ordinary when looking in her rear mirror. A long trail of white smoke rocketed from the ground, climbing quickly and leveling out at her altitude. It was clear that this was the missile, and the sudden loud blare of the warning system only further confirmed this.

There was no point in waiting for the range to close, and she immediately began to fire off countermeasures as instructed beforehand. The Falcon began to periodically drop groups off chaff and flares, creating a line of them behind the jet. As she had been told another time, it was best to fire off both rather than test with one or the other; there would be time to theorize what type of missile it was when she was on the ground, either at base or in a prisoner camp.

As the missile began to close she made a sharp turn to evade it manually, but it proved unnecessary. The missile became distracted by one of the flare bursts and flew off in another direction, a good distance away from Dash’s Falcon. Before Dash could relax, her warning went off again, signaling a second missile had locked onto her fighter.

She looked around, but could not visually find it, leaving her blind as to what direction it was coming from. Remembering to focus on evading rather than seeing, she began to launch the countermeasures again and increased the speed, enacting some turns to throw the missile off. Before long she spotted it as well, approaching off to her side and at a closer range than the previous one.

Rainbow turned to fly away from it, increasing speed and diving away from the shot. She approached the desert floor at a fast pace, having to level out quickly so that she did not fall too low. However, only after leveling out did she realize that the warning had ceased. A brief glance to her six revealed the missile flying off in another direction, diverted by one of the many chaff clouds that she had released in her escape.

“Rainbow One, Lincoln. Mission complete, you can RTB now, over.”

“Copy Lincoln, returning to base, out,” she replied, rather surprised at how easy the whole ordeal was. “Huh… that wasn’t too bad… guess it’s not as scary as it seems.”


“See? It isn’t so bad around here,” Staff Sergeant Braxley commented to the other soldiers as he fiddled with some hamburgers on a small, makeshift grill. “With a little decorating it might just feel like home.”

“Some burgers and a Packers poster doesn’t make home for me,” Sergeant Clovis replied.

“Well… sorry, Sergeant. You just got to… I don’t know, go along with stuff sometimes.”

The men were making a hearty attempt at relaxing outside of a large concrete bunker where they were stationed, one of many as part of the long static defenses of the Papa Line that stretched as far as the eyes could see. Long rows and systems of trenches and tunnels, pillboxes, bunkers, and other fortifications with variations to their position and number in accordance with the terrain they were built on. This particular bunker was one of the large ones, a monolithic three stories high and overlooking some smaller, one-story bunkers in front of them. A maze of trenches connected all the structures for safer movement when the line was under fire, but usually the soldiers simply walked about normally on the surface, trying to spend as little time inside the structures as possible.

Though the individual units were rotated out from time to time, this was to be the squad’s new home for the foreseeable future until they were relieved, and realistically no one knew when that would be. The larger bunkers like these also had a basement, which served as the bunk for most. Despite proper insulation and airflow, at least what could be provided without sacrificing protection, the structures could become bitingly cold at night and painfully hot during the day. The troops began to acquire a unique distaste for them, and many decided to take their chances sleeping outside on clear nights.

The barbecuing was just finishing when Corporal Henry returned, toting two large packs of water in plastic bottles in his sand t-shirt, with Private Yakubov in tow hauling an additional pack. Emigrating from St. Petersburg, Yakubov was one of a great number of immigrants that were joining the armed forces, helping swell its ranks with a rather effective baiting strategy. Oddly optimistic, if cold at times, he was a welcome addition to the squad, adding a degree of resourcefulness.

Altogether, the ‘White Russian’ was a strange standout. While a number of his countrymen wished for the days of the U.S.S.R., he went back further, saying quite a few times that he yearned for the days of the Tsars like Peter the Great, the builder of his hometown. Admitting he had been spoiled with bright stories of them as a child, he still basked in the days of the empire, a time even his grandparents never witnessed. He also claimed to share distant blood with the Romanovs, though just how distant was anyone’s guess.

“Foods done?” Henry asked, setting the water down next to the side of the bunker.

“Yea, take your pick,” Braxley invited. “No buns though, sorry.”

“Hey, it’s warm food. I can be happy with that.”

“Corporal, where’s Pistol Pete anyways? Didn’t he go with you two? He’s the one that scammed these things for us,” Clovis asked, trying his best to use one of the thick, dry slices of bread from their MREs as a substitute for a bun.

“Sergeant Peter will be back shortly,” Yakubov answered, setting his case down and stretching his arms, his sleeve falling to show the black double-eagle coat of arms. “The truck carrying the MREs was running late, so he sent us ahead.”

“You know, would it kill them to send stuff our ways for once instead of making us walk so far back there?” Henry asked, taking one of the patties for himself. “Can’t be that hard to set up a field kitchen or a laundry detail around here.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to send his clothes back to get washed,” Braxley reminded him.

“Yea, cause the cleaners always lose them! If anyone’s going to lose my uniform’s it’s going to be me-” the Corporal was interrupted by the sound of thunder from a closing storm. “Looks like the afternoon showers are here.”

“Yea, let’s get the stuff inside,” the Staff Sergeant ordered. “Pistol’s going to have to either trudge it through the rain or wait till it passes.”

“Knowing him he’ll probably chill in the rear,” Sergeant Clovis stated, “anything that keeps him out of the prison bunker.”

“You’re probably right; he can take care of himself.”