//------------------------------// // Into the Abyss // Story: Nearing the Edge // by Eagle //------------------------------// April 17th, 2006 1930 Hours North Pacific Source It had been weeks since Cole had met with or spoken to Dash or Dust. Not since their final conversation in Nevada. He did not feel excessively bad about it, though he tried not to think about very often. Too much focus on such distressing events tended to lead his mind astray, and if his mind went astray it could enter a deep, depressing vale. That kind of mindset is not healthy for flight. It was not that Cole did not wish to see them again; it was not truly his fault to begin with. After Red Flag, the squadron was redeployed to Equestria, but not to the Everfree. They were sent to a small auxiliary base called Brumbay Field the northern coast. Their vacancy near Ponyville was filled by other units, primarily the Second Fighter Squadron, the ‘Beagles’. The squadron had not originally been slated to take part in Exercise Marshal, the Navy's multi-carrier display of power, but after arriving at Brumbay, Cole and some of the naval officers there agreed to let the Eagles join, ‘observing’ from a ways away. It was healthy to practice inter-service cooperation in operations. No branch could fight a war alone. The term ‘observing’ was used in a strict sense, however. The squadron itself played no real part in the exercise, and some requests by the Air Force pilots to spar with their Navy counterparts had to be denied. Doing so would only interfere negatively with the Navy activities. Before they knew it, night was beginning to fall and the exercise was coming to an end. “Eagle One, everyone’s starting to leave. Can we head back yet?” Parrot asked, clearly tired from his tone. “In a minute, we just need to wait for the call,” Cole replied. “Didn’t you say you wanted to come out here?” “Only because I had a score to settle with that 'cat driver,” answered the Alpha flight pilot. “Hey, if it makes you feel better I had ten bucks riding on you,” another flight mate chimed in. “Bursa, any wingman willing to lose money over his friend’s dumb ass is a good wingman.” Down below, riding on the churning waters, were the actual participants of the exercise. Three American carrier battle groups were positioned from near the Equestrian coast up to the cold waters of the North Pacific, covering a vast swathe of ocean. These were, respectively, the Enterprise, Gerald R. Ford, and Ronald Reagan. The first of these was the most hodgepodge of the three, being made up of a collection of some of the oldest and newest vessels in the Navy. The Enterprise was the center and most famed among these. Still performing admirably after forty-four years of duty, the carrier was still slated to be decommissioned on some still-unknown date in the near future. Conversely, the ship given the duty of protecting her was the young cruiser Bastogne, her crew still beaming from their successful first cruise. Her captain observed the carrier from the bridge of the cruiser, watching the final Tomcat of VF-14 land, now finished with the exercise operations. Even from such a distance, he could still vaguely make out their tail markings; the pitch black fins with a white circle and black top hat in its center. “That should be about it. Exercise should be wrapping up soon,” Captain Harrison remarked. “Commander, you mind taking the rest of the graveyard shift?” “Yes Sir, I got plenty of sleep earlier,” Thomas answered, knowing the Captain had been up for much longer. “You might want to wait a minute though. There have been some strange contact reports coming in from far off.” “Figures… alright, let me take a quick look,” Harrison acknowledged, going down to the CIC to check on the radar. “Alright, what’s going on?” “There’s an Air Force AWACS reporting multiple contacts heading our way, callsign is Spyglass,” one of the crewmen explained, pointing to the radar screen. “You can see the link on our screen. They’re keeping track of them, and so are we.” “Huh… well… have they got anyone looking into it?” Harrison asked. “Affirmative Captain, they’ve got an Air Force squadron on it.” “Good, keep tabs on them. We shouldn’t let our guard down.” The crew did as told while the E-3 Sentry continued to send information on the unknown aircraft. As promised, the AWACS contacted the Eagles with the request for investigation. They were the closest American unit to the formation, and as such it was their job to make contact with it. “Eagle One, Spyglass. We have some… strange contacts at bearing two-five-five, can you adjust course to get a visual confirmation on them? See what they're doing, over?” “Uh, confirm Spyglass… Eagle is moving to ID, out,” Cole acknowledged. “Think the Bloc is sending out some planes to spy on us?” Runner asked as the squadron turned northwest towards the contacts. “Don’t know… maybe. It doesn’t look like they’re trying to hide though. Might just be a show of force in response-” “Hey, what is that? Is my radar on the fritz?” Firebird interrupted, seeing a large and growing number of dots on his radar. “Anyone else see that? There's a ton of contacts over there.” “It's showing up on mine too,” Cole confirmed. “How come the blockheads at the MILL didn't tell us about this?” Runner wondered aloud with ire. “I swear to God, those morons fell asleep,” Cole groaned. “Still… focus… those bogies are still there.” “Understood lead, range decreasing,” Runner reported. “Twenty-two miles left before intercept.” The range continued to drop steadily, as the Eagle Squadron flew to meet the incoming armada of planes. Some calls were sent out on open channels to no answer, and the number steadily continued to grow. No one else seemed to realize something was out of the ordinary. “Radio contact is failing,” Spyglass reported. “Guys, get ready,” Cole warned. “Spyglass, you ought to report this.” “We are, but we can’t shoot unless we know what they’re doing. We have to be sure about what’s happening.” Cole could hear the doubt in his voice, and he knew just as well what this meant. Cole understood everything had to be official to avoid disasters, but this was clear as to what was happening. The number of bogies and their heading gave off the feel of an attack, and his stomach began to twist with anxiety and his mind began to race. What could he do when the fighting started? He was vastly outnumbered, so what tactic should be used? How would he keep his squadron alive with this? How could he stay alive? Would he stay alive? The range dropped to ten miles, and fell further and further. In the failing light and rainy weather, Cole was able to make out some of the cluster of dots that constituted the Bloc wave. He strained his eyes as best he could in an attempt to identify them, and when he did so all became clear. “Bombers!” he shouted. “Bombers and fighters! Blinders, Blowlamps, fucking everything! Spyglass, they’re coming for us!” “E-Enemy approaching! All units return to your combat air patrol stations! Protect the carriers!” the AWACS called out to all American units that could hear. “Warning red! Weapons free! Repeat, warning red!” “Eagles, engage at once!” Cole ordered. “Alpha, engage the fighters! Runner, we’re going after the bombers! Copy?” “Got it, One! Breaking to engage fighters!” “I got your back, lead,” replied Runner as the other squadron members broke away. “Break off and go hunting on your own, two. Don't worry about me,” Cole replied. “You sure?” “Our priority right now is to kill as many of those bombers before they launch their weapons. Alpha will keep most of the escorts occupied. I'll call if I'm in trouble, you got it?” “Understood lead, breaking away to engage now!” With his wingman going off on his own hunt, Cole turned his attention to the scattered bombers. Going over the radar he selected the nearest target as his prey, a Backfire jet from the looks of it. Selecting a Sidewinder missile and locking onto the aircraft, Cole loosed the missile at his target. The Backfire attempted to go supersonic and evade, but the missile struck before they could do so, detonating against one of the engines and causing the bomber to fall into a death glide. As the commanders of the squadron chased the bombers, Lieutenant Desser and his Alpha flight waged a high-speed battle with the enemy fighters that were double their number. Surprise combined with an aggressive first attack had thrown the Bloc escorts off balance, but they were quickly organizing themselves. It was now a matter of attempting to survive in the dim rain squalls and twisting confusion of the aerial battle. Desser and the flight continued their offensive, trying to draw more fighters to them. The radio was filled with the pilot’s various calls declaring firing, kills, and enemy aircraft formations. Working on his own, Firebird jumped a MiG and downed it before any evasion could take place, only to have its wingman turn and tail the flight leader in retaliation. “This is Parrot, I got one-no-two bandits on my six! Can someone help me out here!?” the Alpha pilot shouted out amongst the many other calls for assistance. “I got one of them on me too!” Firebird replied, annoyed over the distraction keeping him from his flightmate. “Four here, I can get them off you,” Orion offered, having just lost his own attacker. “Just head to your right about four o’clock so I can get in position.” “Hauser you better hurry the fuck up! These guys are firing off their guns all around me!” “Yea, I can see the tracers from here. Sure is a waste of ammo on their part.” Parrot followed the advice, allowing Orion to drop behind the Shadow planes and shoot one down while the other veered away as Lieutenant Hauser pursued him. The rest of Alpha Flight faced simultaneous dilemmas. One of the other pilots, Spark, was able to ward off the jet chasing Desser, while Parrot himself scored a kill in revenge for the fright he had been given before. The pilot in the flight’s third position, Bursa, was assailed by a number of Flankers at a time when no other Airman was able to assist; he calmly reported two bandits trailing him and continued calling for aid before his radio went silent mid-sentence. “Spyglass, this is Eagle One-One. When’s the rest of our squadron going to get here?” Desser asked through the ire and desperation. “Bravo Flight is still four minutes out, One-One.” “Well tell them to light the fires and hurry the Hell up! Off on his own, Cole was now in the process of riding through the second attack wave. There would be no interference with these bombers, as the enemy fighters were now bearing down on the lone F-15. Flying from one rain cloud to the other to keep in some visible concealment, he noticed the glint of two bandits preying on him, diving down to attack. Releasing some chaff and flares to scramble their targeting, he pulled out to his right while cutting his speed, causing one of the Fulcrums to overshoot him. The Shadow pilot’s wingman, however, was more attentive and was able to slow down in time to keep to Cole’s tail. The enemy pursued him up again as he tried in vain to target the first Fulcrum, having to break off and focus on staying alive. “Runner, I guess they noticed me! I could use that help now if you’re not too busy!” “Be there in a minute Cap… kinda… got my own bad guys to shake first,” replied Cole’s wingman. “Take your time!” Cole noticed one of the fighters pull up on the other side of him and pull ahead while the other did the opposite, trying to sandwich him between their jets. He dove out and broke in the opposite direction, closely pursued by his predators, before nosing up to climb again. As he did he briefly noticed another gray dot ahead of him, followed by missile warnings and a number of tracers flying off to his left side as a third opponent charged at him. The American turned sharply again from the attack, but as he did so he noticed one of the pursuing fighters pull up sharply and drift in front of his jet, apparently having had to dodge his ally’s move from the danger of collision. Not daring to waste the opportunity, Cole locked a Sidewinder onto him in fired in only a second, the missile closing fast and detonating amongst some flares just behind the jet, more than enough to kill its engines. The other MiG was able to keep better control, but suddenly exploded from a radar-guided missile, signaling the arrival of the Captain’s wingman. “Sir, you’re clear now,” Runner called in. “Thanks. You got any of those bombers?” “I got one, a Blinder.” “Good. You heard anything from Alpha flight?” “No Sir, nothing since we split up. Things have been crazy. Spyglass said some more of our guys are launching from the field, but that was awhile ago. It’s just us for right now, at least till the Navy gets here.” “Damn it, I separated myself, lost control of the situation,” Cole openly chastised himself. “Damn it, damn it, did I lose another wing?” Far away on the ocean, the target of the Bloc bombers, the American fleet, was scrambling to defend itself. With the prior warning from the Air Force and having spotted the enemies rom a good distance, the air defense of the fleet had a brief but important minute to organize itself. Receiving an order to fire first, the venerable USS Yorktown locked up the individual missiles and fired away. Clearing its cells, the cruiser succeeded in shooting down all but five of the targets its computer selected. With the remaining missiles still closing but their horde reduced to eighty-nine in number, it was now the turn of the destroyer Mahan, the outermost ship in the formation. Loosing all of her shots, she succeeded in clearing out the remaining targets, with the final one being killed a scant mile from her. The battlegroup of the Enterprise had weathered the first wave and come out unharmed, but several more were coming. The crew of the old carrier was racing back and forth to ready their aircraft for launch. One of the carrier’s F-14 squadrons, the recently re-established VF-12, had been launched piecemeal into the battle at the first alert under the callsign of ‘Cutlass’. The crew was now attempting to coordinate VF-14 in a better way, lining up four of their Tomcats on the flight deck. Among them was the squadron leader, Commander Francis ‘Boston’ Taylor, shutting the canopy of the jet and continually calling for the aircraft to launch and swearing to his RIO as he waited. “Sneaky SOBs, they should’ve shown up when I was up there!” he yelled. “I swear Donnie, I am not going out by getting caught on the fucking deck!” “We won’t, Boston!” the RIO assured him. “Come on, come on, come on,” Taylor repeated to himself until clearance to launch was finally given. “Alright, we got it. You ready, Radar?” “Hit it!” The other three Tomcats launched before Taylor’s, shooting off the deck of the Enterprise one-by-one, their afterburners propelling them into the sky. Finally, it was Taylor’s turn, and with the kneel-and-point by one of the deck hands, the catapult launched the F-14 off the ship. Taylor nosed up and joined with the rest of his wingmen as the crew below moved to set up another flight of fighters for launch. “Alright I’m airborne! Come and get me!” shouted Taylor. “Let’s see how well you fight when we’re actually flying!” “Camelot, this is Screwtop,” the carrier’s Hawkeye AWACS called. “Adjust heading to bearing two-five-eight, meet up with the Air Force squadron there, callsign is ‘Eagles’. Make contact with their AWACS, callsign ‘Spyglass’. Some fighters from Cutlass squadron were already sent out but they’ve been heavily engaged. Destroy any bandits that you come in contact with, your primary mission is to defend the fleet. How copy, over?” “Copy, Screwtop! Let’s get moving, Tophatters!” From aboard the Bastogne, Harrison observed their departure and hoped they would be able to shoot down some of the bombers before they could fire. The group had already launched a number of its missiles, and it would only be a matter of time before the supplies were exhausted. In the brief reprieve following the first attack, he attempted to return to the bridge, tripping and swearing along the stairs. Having to fight off weariness was difficult enough on its own without a war breaking out. “Shit shit shit!” he cursed, tumbling through the door and onto the bridge. “Commander!” “Evening Captain, what orders have you got for us?” asked Thomas, his expression seeming to have remained the same as when the Captain left him. “Our job, coordinate the air defense,” Harrison answered. “Anything new? We got any picture of the incoming bandits?” “Not a clear one. Jamming’s picked up immensely but the reports from the planes are saying there are a fair number of them. Order’s been sent for the battlegroup to move north and rendezvous with the others; course is already set.” “Good, good work Thomas. Let’s see about organizing the ships a little more.” As the Americans began to organize themselves, the Eagle squadron continued to peck away at the Griffon and Shadow attackers. Cole and Runner, still separated from the rest, had finally gotten a moment of peace. A second wave was coming, but as they were alerted to the presence of the American fighters, it would be impossible to get through to the bombers. The brief relaxation did little to help Cole, only allowing his mind to run again, this time over the bigger picture. How was the fleet holding out? What was going on in Equestria itself? Was it being invaded from the ground? Was it being bombed? How was everyone there holding out? Were the Equestrians fighting, or were they collapsing? Was Dash flying well enough to drive them back? He stopped there as a chill shot up his spine and through his muscles, causing him to jerk in his seat. There was a war going on and she probably did not even know it. Alternatively, she did know and was fighting it right now. She could even be dead right now. She could have died before it even started. She could be gone and he would not know. After all that time he was away from her, wasted in avoiding a simple contact or apology, she could be gone from this world as of now. Cole noticed a series of dimmed flashes in the corner of his eye, near where the enemy formation was supposed to be. These came from the carrier Tomcats, firing most of their long-range phoenix missiles in quick succession. Not long after the radio crackled with a new voice calling out to them. “-in. Repeat, come in. Eagle, if you're reading us, pick up the damn phone!” “This is Eagle lead, I'm reading you.” “Ah, finally. Your AWACS was kind enough to patch us through to you,” the voice clarified. “This is Camelot, coming in from your west, over.” “Who? I don't know that callsign.” “Navy, off the Enterprise. You're talking to Boston right now, lead aircraft.” “Ah, good to finally have you guys here.” “Glad to be here. You seen Cutlass Flight anywhere? They came off the carrier before us,” the Tomcat pilot asked. “Negative, you guys are the first Navy pilots we’ve seen out here.” “Well shit, where the Hell is the rest of your squadron? Are they still active?” “Maybe, they could be dead,” Cole thought before choosing another answer. “Rest of my unit engaged the enemy escorts closer to the coast, kept most of them fighters from the first wave occupied.” “Alright, well you'd better get back to them. Thanks for holding off the tide but we can handle it from here.” “You sure? I still got some shots I want to burn.” “Captain, I don't think we can,” Runner cut in. “Most of our fuel’s been burned up, and we don't have any tanker to meet up with. We need what's left to get back to the field.” “Go on, the Hornets should be following us shortly,” Boston reiterated. “Ok, Godspeed Camelot team.” “Same for you, Air Force.” Having given the Bloc forces a bloody nose and broken up the attack, the F-15s turned and headed for home. The duty of defense now rested solely on the Navy pilots, who quickly set to work engaging targets in an attempt to buy time for the fleet. If the three carrier battle groups could combine into one, the combined defensive firepower of the force would be able to stave off most attacks. What they did not know was that this plan had already been stopped. Though the Enterprise group had so far avoided damage, part in thanks to the Air Force’s actions, the other two groups had no such warning. They suffered the full night of the enemy's attacks without interference. In the center, the Bloc bombers attacked the carrier group of the Gerald R. Ford, newly built and practically right out of the shipyards. Most of the missiles tracked the unique signature of the battleship Colorado, the second largest ship in formation behind the Ford. Still retaining most of her missiles and bristling with automatic weaponry, the massive battlewagon opened up in a grand spectacle. Shooting down most of the enemy weapons, a number closed in none the less. One was destroyed by Phalanx fire ahead of the bow, the explosion rocking even the mighty warship, while a second was shot down extremely close to the port bow, showering the massive number one turret in shrapnel that ricocheted off. The third missile came in farther to the side of the port while the guns were engaging the previous ones, and they turned too late to engage. The rocket pierced into the hull underneath the second CIWS and exploded, sending a spout of flame upwards and engulfing the Phalanx as it shot skywards. Though the battleship had been designed with all the knowings of modern naval warfare in mind, and all the necessary armor that came with it, it was still a very damaging impact. The second Phalanx had been torched, and the explosion and taken the one across from it temporarily offline. Defenseless from this side, the Colorado was struck by another missile not a full minute later. Luckily, this exploded on impact, and despite leaving a hole in the armor no critical systems were damaged. It was hoped the carrier would escape damage, but she was not so fortunate. Her new complement of F-35 fighters performed admirably in defending their vessel, but there was simply too much pressure in the way of numbers and confusion from the enemy. In the third salvo of ASMs, one struck the side of the carrier near the starboard bow, opening a large hole in her side from which black smoke poured out. In the chaos, the Americans were unable to see that some of the closing Griffon aircraft carried torpedoes until the weapons were already in the water. Though they were few in number and launched at great range, one was able to reach its target and detonated on the side of the Ford, sending a large spout of water skyward and causing the carrier to slow and list slightly. In the far north, the Ronald Reagan was faring better. As the Bloc aircraft had to travel farther to get to her, she had a few more precious minutes to prepare a defense. Though some of her escorts were hit and damaged, she escaped the wrath of the Bloc for much of the battle. However, in the final missiles launches, one lucky Kickback missile passed through the defense nets and struck the Reagan near the crew’s living spaces in the forward part of the ship. This left the southern group, which was just fighting off another wave, as the final target that needed to be hit for the Bloc to claim a vital strategic victory. “Here come the rest of them!” Harrison warned to the crew. “Be ready to engage!” “Captain, there’s a number of smaller aircraft closing on the fleet at high speed,” one of the crew warned. “Focus on the missiles first, they're the main threat,” the Captain ordered before noticing his XO coming back to the room. “Thomas?” “Rendezvous has been canceled, Sir. The other two carrier groups got hit hard and they're scattering to get out of the combat zone. We’ve been told to get out of here ourselves and make for the nearest allied port, and that's Baltimare.” “The other groups were stopped? How bad were the casualties?” “Unknown right now, Sir, but both carriers were damaged, and a few escorting ships were lost. They can't wait around anymore.” “Fucking Hell this went from terrible to downright fucking abysmal in less than an hour… we have to get the Enterprise out of here. If she gets taken out the Bloc’s going to have a monopoly on carrier power in the North Pacific. Any of the-” “Torpedoes in the water! Multiple torpedoes inbound!” one of the crew yelled. “What!? From a sub?” Harrison asked from across the room. “I-I don't think anyone's seen one! No launch transients! They just appeared near a group of bandits, I think they're air-launched!” “Shit! Alright Thomas, you stick in CIC and coordinate fire. Don't let any of their planes get too close, and get another ship to focus on the missiles, got it? I'm heading back to the bridge to steer the ship in the right direction.” As Harrison charged back to the bridge, the ships of the formation were already taking their own evasions to escape the oncoming torpedoes. However, in the sudden chaos, there had been no coordination amongst the group. Each vessel headed off in its own direction, and though they evaded the torpedoes the group had been splintered and broken. With the formation broken, each ship was now virtually on their own as the missiles and aircraft closed in. One ASM locked on to the Mahan, which attempted to counter through chaff bursts and CIWS fire. The Kickback missile became distracted by one of the chaff clouds fizzling its tracking radar. Shooting over the destroyer, it continued on, making a sharp turn towards a new target and ramming into the unsuspecting destroyer Gonzalez. Exploding on impact, it wrecked much of the stern, leaving the destroyer with a long trail of smoke pouring from the burning gas on the deck from the helicopter pad. Harrison saw this explosion as he entered the bridge, breathing heavily and coarsely attempting to get to the seaman at the wheel of the cruiser. “H-Helm!” he shouted. “Adjust course, come starboard to zero-nine-nine! Keep us close to the carrier!” The Bastogne heeled over to her right, heading west and attempting to keep up with the retreating carrier. One of her few remaining missiles shot out as she did so, flying off to impact one of a number of inbound bomb-toting Fulcrums. The rest of the fighters scattered, attempting to bypass the cruiser and reach the carrier before it escaped. Two were shot down while attempting this, both to missiles from the Bastogne. The remaining Fulcrums, all piloted by members of the Griffon Navy, bore down on the Enterprise. Her Captain, Murray, observed the inbound fighters with the same calm that had characterized him through the entire battle. The three MiGs attempted a synchronized bomb-drop, with one falling to the Enterprise’s Sea Sparrow missiles. All three bomb loads missed, falling well off to the side of the carrier in a great splash. As a number of other aircraft moved in to attack the ship, Murray had to decline multiple times for the carrier to power ahead at full speed as it would have outrun her escorts, much to the displeasure of the crew. Under the direction of her Captain, the Enterprise waded through four other attacks of similar nature, with one bomb falling close enough to rattle the ship but do no damage. Slowly, between the efforts of her fighter aircraft and the escorting ships, the number of remaining enemy contacts was reduced. Despite everything that had been thrown at her, the Enterprise steadily slipped out of the combat zone, undamaged and still ready to fight. “I think we’ll make it,” Harrison said to himself after receiving a report from the radar. “I think we’ll make it, thank God. Still can’t relax though, nope. Not one fucking bit. We’re at war, can’t let our guard down… Christ I wish I could sleep.” He jumped a bit at the sound of jet engines overhead, but was relieved to see that they were Tomcats, returning from their defending mission along with the rest of the carrier’s air wing. Counting them as they landed, their overall number was much less than they were before. He felt his heartbeat in his chest, still having trouble slowing down after the scare the jets had given him. “I swear if I die from a heart attack from our own planes,” he thought. There were a few more missiles launches from other ships, but another check with the radar confirmed that no more enemy aircraft were following them. Harrison was thankful, though only for a moment before reminding himself again that they had to be ready for another attack, followed by wishing for rest once more. What he and many others in the battlegroup did not realize was that the Enterprise was now the only active American carrier near Arcaia and in the Pacific. Though few knew of this at the time, everyone realized the overall situation. The war they had dreaded and prepared for had finally begun to a grim and awful start. Everything would change in the coming cataclysm as the two sides struggled to determine the victor and the defeated, and the survivors and the fallen. Here history took a great turn; nothing would be the same as it was before, not just in the coming years, but for all time. Just what changed remained to be, and it would be chosen by the side that won and whoever was left.