Chapter 6
“Alright Dash, how are we gonna do this?” Lightning Dust is curled up on her bed looking over the day’s flight rotations. “We have to fly literally all day, there may not even be time to deal with it. There’s no way we can have booze shipped here, and I don’t even know when we’ll be docking next.”
It is a pretty grim situation, our mission starts at twelve-thirty. We’re scheduled to be in the air for six hours, which will totally ruin the rest of the day.
“Well, if we want to be able to make something happen fast, then we’re gonna need to find a way out of flying for the day. Maybe say that we’re both sick or something. We’ve never done that before, with luck, we may just be able to pull it off.”
LD looks thoughtful. “Or, even better yet, we find a reason to land somewhere else instead of trying to get out of our mission entirely.”
“How do you suppose we’re gonna do that?
“Oh, you know. I have a few ideas.”
I hop off my bed and walk over to her. “Like what?”
“Well, we’ve been having some issues with our jets lately anyway, right?”
“Oh… I see where you’re going with this. That just might work, actually. Though, we’d have to make sure there’s a base nearby.”
“Damn right it’ll work, but only if we play it off just right. Once we get in the air and find a good position, just follow my lead. I think I have the perfect way to get us on the ground.”
“Alright then, I’ll let you do what you do.”
With that, we both head for the showers and start getting ready for the morning briefing. It doesn’t take very long for us to get suited up and ready, so we make it to the Flier’s Lounge with a few minutes to spare before the briefing starts. LD and I head straight for the coffee pot, and Derpy positively beams as we both snag our first morning cup.
“Morning, Derpy!” I smile back at her, wondering how I could ever have imagined that she’s capable of being some sort of spy. After taking a sip and trying my best not to cringe at the bitter kick to the back of my throat, I walk over to my awesome personalized chair and take a seat. Whatever idea LD thinks she has, I hope it’s a good one. I look over to her, it looks like she’s pretty deep in thought. Maybe this’ll work. I’d never admit it to her face, but LD can be pretty sharp. When she has an idea, it usually works.
The morning starts out pretty nicely, that is, until my least favorite group of pilots shows up. The Canterlot Squadron… Or at least, that’s what I like to call them. They’re a group of unicorns that pilot two-seat aircraft. And they definitely act like unicorns… At least earth ponies aren’t so detached from reality that they think their shit doesn’t stink. They way those ponies hold their noses so high up in the air makes me want to go snag a thundercloud and drown them with the rain.
“Well well, if it isn’t the ambiguously gay duo… Here to babysit the skies while we do all the real work?”
You see, that right there is why I hate these ponies. “Psh, please. The only work you do in the skies is giving each other horn jobs while one of you makes sure the autopilot light is still on.”
That gets a laugh from the rest of the pilots in the room. I’m pretty sure everypony dislikes the uni-pilots just as much as we do, but they seem to have a particular hate-boner for us, so we like to return the favor.
The unicorn pilot laughs just like a “noblepony” from Canterlot would laugh at one of Twilight’s crappy “politically correct” jokes. “You’re just jealous because you two can’t fly in the same jet together. We all know how you like to be close to each other.”
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anypony so narrow-minded in my life. “Actually, it kinda seems like you’re jealous… you must hate that that LD and I get laid every night. I bet it’s frustrating to know that we get to do whatever we want to each other, while you’re stuck giving yourself hoofies when you think nopony’s looking. Or, do you like to let the other stallions watch while you do it?”
LD decides to get in on the action too. “Nice one, Dash!” She gives me a hoof bump. “These guys are totally jealous… they probably think about us every night when they’re in their bunks, wondering if any of their bunkmates might be willing to trade favors. I bet if you ask your partner real nice he might let you suck his di—”
“Alright ponies, let’s cut the chatter!” In walks the intel guy, just as things were getting good. He’s probably gonna give us another incredibly boring and detailed description of the incredibly boring and uneventful mission he has planned for us today. Let’s see how bad it is this time.
“Alright ponies, today we’ve got something a bit different. You actually get to fly over land today!”
That’s a change. A very convenient one.
“Were going to be doing some joint-attack ops with the Air Force. This will involve you cooperating with multiple bombers as fighter escort. You guys will be providing support as-needed for the several operations taking place throughout the area.” The intel guy sweeps his hoof across the projected map on the wall. “You’ll be meeting up with the Air Force squadrons, going to a remote region of Ponbekistan, and running interference on anything that might be trying to take those guys out. Our first target is here.” He zooms in on the picture and points to a small cluster of buildings on the map.
“You’ll taking out a group of insurgents in a small town, then destroying the outlying supply depots and transport tunnels. After that, we’re headed to provide support for ground troops running ops throughout the region. Here’s a map of our field of operations with a list of the demographics of each town we’ll be operating in, make sure you study this carefully. There are civilian buildings all around, so do whatever you must to avoid damage to the surrounding towns and villages. “ He gives us copies of a ridiculously detailed map, complete with lots of funny symbols and acronyms that we’ve all pretty much forgotten since training.
One of the other pilots chimes in, asking about something on the chart. “Hey, what’s MAM mean?”
The intel officer replies, “Military Age Males. They're potential bad guys who could fight us.”
“Why don’t we call them... Fighting Age Guys? Heh heh.”
The intel officer smiles and replies, “Because then we’d get them confused with Fighter-Attack Guys. Heh heh.”
The unicorn goon laughs and says, “Hey, just like Rainbow and Lightning!”
“Oh, you got a problem? Let’s see how you feel about this!” I grin and look over at my wingpony. She gives me another one of her awesome, sexy smiles, then rolls her chair closer to mine.
Here’s the part where we blow their minds.
Lightning reaches out and grabs my foreleg, pulling me in until our muzzles are almost touching. I tuck a stray forelock behind her ear, then gently place my hooves on her cheeks. We lock eyes, smiles still spread across our faces. For a moment, we let our noses touch... just long enough to let the suspense build. Our lips meet; the sound of background ponies’ wings popping out is priceless.
After a very long and very passionate exchange of affection, we break our last kiss and end the embrace. At least half the pegasi in the room are sporting wing-wood… myself and LD included. What? Just because we pretend to be gay and make ponies uncomfortable by swapping spit in public, it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves while we’re doing it. Wait… that came out wrong. You know what I mean!
Our little show pretty much shut everypony up. The resident intel officer decided to leave us to our business after handing out mission-specific documentation. Canterlot Squadron made their exit wordlessly, though they did give us nasty looks as they passed by.
“Well, I guess we’re all set. You ready to gear up, Dash?”
I throw a hoof around LD’s shoulder and whisper into her ear, “You got your plan figured out?”
“Looks like we’re gonna be making an emergency landing on an Air Force base. Think you can handle that?”
I crack a huge smile in response, she and I both had heard that Air Force bases have all the best alcohol… and pretty much everything else. “Yeah, I definitely think I can handle that. I’ll leave it to you then. How will I know when you’re ready?”
“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll know.”
“Sounds like you got it all figured out.”
“Damn right, Dash. Let’s do this!”
With that, we make our way to the top deck. Time to fly.
I’ve gotten lucky today and been designated the lead for our section of jets. Not to mention getting lucky with Rainbow. She’s totally into me! Just because we’re totally gay and make ponies uncomfortable by totally making out in public doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it when we do.
I’m grinning as I do a preflight on my jet and then climb into the cockpit. Still grinning as we launch into the late afternoon sun.
Even when I have to check in with call signs, the ridiculous one we’ve been assigned doesn’t dampen the mood.
“Therapist one-one.”
“Therapist one-two,” Rainbow replies. She pauses, and then says exactly what I’m thinking. “Seriously, therapist? Who comes up with these things?”
We share a chuckle and point our jets towards the rendezvous point. The check-in location is buzzing with other airplanes. The two-seat jets from The Ass are there, as well as Air Force bombers and tankers.
Everypony’s terribly un-tactical today. Rainbow and I wait impatiently while the rest clumsily check in over the radio. Of course the unicorns are bad; even with the two of them per aircraft they can’t seem to fly and think at the same time. The Air Force is only marginally better. I guess those big, slow planes have pilots relaxing at the controls, probably drinking coffee and getting up to use the restroom whenever they want.
After we’ve met up, we all top off the tanks. Airplane-to-airplane refueling is roughly comparable to pegasi in-flight sex: You’re both flying in close proximity, probing each other and being incredibly careful because the consequences of an error could be horrible.
When we’re ready to push to the target, we arrange into a loose formation and head into country. The tankers turn around and head back to an Equestrian base set up in Hoovikstan, where the Air Force runs most of their operations.
Crossing the beach, I don’t even bother looking down. Ponbekistan is a featureless bowl of sand. I’ve flown over it before and I still can’t imagine why anypony lives there, but sure enough they do. And they seem pissed about it. They never stop fighting. If Equestrians weren’t around, they’d fight themselves.
The ride to the target is boring. It takes hours, just getting there. Hundreds of miles go by beneath us. I suppose it demonstrates the long striking arm of our military, but it sure can be tedious.
I could talk to Rainbow, but there’s no way of knowing who might be listening to the frequency. It almost makes me wish I was flying one of the electronic warfare jets. It’s a timid mission, just flying around with computers and stuff instead of weapons, but at least those guys can use their spy equipment to listen to FM radio. One of those nerds in that squadron once told me that the Ponbekistanis really like Sapphire Shores.
The overall mission commander is flying the lead bomber and orders us to do a radio check. I glance at the map, seeing that we’re approaching the target. I manage some enthusiasm. With any luck, we’ll get to use our weapons to clean up missed targets. If we get super lucky, the Ponbekistani military or someone will fly an attack jet too close and we’ll get to have some target practice.
The mission commander counts down. “Three, two, one, bombs away!”
The bombers drop their bombs.
“Well, that’s great, everypony. Have a nice day!”
The formation starts to turn for home. I crane my neck to look down, hoping to see some explosions. Not wanting to run into a bomber, though, I have to concentrate on flying.
Along the way home, there’s a tanker waiting for us. Just what I need - a nervewracking maneuver right after I’ve completed a bombing mission that turned out to actually be the most boring thing in the world.
There was a study done once that says pilots actually feel more stress landing on a carrier than they do in combat. Whether pounding The Ass or plugging a tanker, I’m kind of demoralized that “combat” is mundane in comparison. It’s not exactly what I pictured when I signed up.
As we wait our turn for the tanker, I glance over at Rainbow and smile. Then again, it’s a beautiful evening, earlier I got a kiss from my crush, and we’re just about to deceive the whole military.
The Air Force jets cycle through. The tanker sticks a very phallic probe into the planes to inject fuel. The tanker also carries a different system to service the Navy, a hose that the jets plug into.
Rainbow and I are last for tanking. I check my gauges, making sure I’ve calculated right. With a shot of fuel, we would have enough to get back to the ship. Without, we’ll have just enough to reach the base in Hoovikstan.
I flip a switch and the refueling probe pops up. It makes my jet look like a unicorn when it emerges from the nose. The tanker is trailing the long hose behind it with a refueling basket on the end. Positioning the jet carefully, I ease forward. Then, I start flailing like somepony is piping dubstep into my helmet.
One of my hooves slaps the throttle forward. The jet surges faster, the probe slamming into the basket. The hose flails like I’m doing. It cracks like a whip, and the basket rips off, still stuck to the probe.
I shove the stick forward to escape the stream of fuel coming out the torn hose. On the radio, I transmit, “Mayday, mayday, this is Therapist one-one. I have a bee in my cockpit and the tanker hose broke. My fuel is insufficient to reach Celestia’s Assistant. Diverting.”
“Therapist one-two. With the tanker broke, I’m not going to be able to get fuel,” Rainbow says. “Also diverting.”
“Sucks for you guys,” says the tanker pilot. “I guess you could just follow us back. After breaking my plane, though, you might get a cold welcome.”
That was about what Rainbow and I expected. Not that we cared what the Air Force thought about us.
We start transmitting our plans back to the ship. It should be a fairly easy fix to land in Hoovikstan, get the basket off, and refuel. Unfortunately, we were the last mission of the day and it will be late at night before we’re able to come back to the ship. Instead of going to the trouble of getting everything set up on the ship just to recover two jets in the middle of the night, we’re told come back with the first wave returning to the ship the next day.
Basically, Rainbow and I have just earned ourselves more than twelve hours of downtime ashore.
The next step is to actually get it approved. We have no other options but going to the base in Hoovikstan, but it would be nice to actually get permission to land there first.
I call up the control tower as we get close. “Base, this is Therapist one-one. We are an emergency divert requesting permission to land.”
“Who are you?” the controller asks. “Do you belong here?”
“No, we don’t, hence the emergency divert part. My wingpony and I are flying a pair of F/A-41’s and are low on fuel. We need to land.”
“Well, there’s a lot of stuff going on here. A lot of planes fly from and return to this base every day. The hangars and flightlines are packed. We don’t really have room for guests.”
“They’re Navy jets - the wings fold up.”
There’s a long silence. Finally, the reply: “Well, I guess we could probably find somewhere to park them.”
“Good. For your reference, would you like our side numbers?”
“What are those? Is it like a tail number?”
I frown into my oxygen mask. We’re probably talking about the same thing, but just to be sure...“It’s the number painted on the side of the jet.”
“Oh, okay, a tail number.”
A tail number painted on the side. Bucking Air Force.
I give the numbers and add, “We’ll also need a maintenance crew to remove a refueling basket from a probe.”
“A what from a what?”
I let out a breath and close my eyes briefly. The tower controller doesn’t know anything about refueling. Typical Air Force - so specialized at their jobs that they don’t know anything else about anything else.
“Just tell maintenance that we’ll need help removing a refueling basket from a Navy jet’s probe. While we’re at it, we can’t go back to the ship until tomorrow so we’ll need a place to stay for tonight. Depending on where you park us, a ride would be nice.”
“Uh…look ma’am, I just talk on the radio.”
I facehoof. My helmet absorbs most of the blow.
We do eventually get our landing clearance, though. The jet bounces hard on the pavement as I bring it in, the tires and suspension still set up for boat landings. The sun is setting as Rainbow and I touch down and head for our assigned parking space. It turns out to be a small square of concrete at the end of the two-mile runway. It’s about that far from any other facilities.
Despite the twilight of the setting sun, the heat hits me as soon as I open the canopy. Hoovikstan is a desert. If I thought flying over sand was bad, looking at the barren landscape from close up is worse.
The maintenance crew shows up promptly and they make quick work of removing the basket. A fuel truck appears and tops us off. All of them give us blank stares when we ask where we can stay for the night.
Deciding to figure it out for ourselves, we hitch rides towards the lighted area of the base. Lights must mean that ponies are around and we can find help. The scale of the place is a little disconcerting. A ship a quarter mile long feels huge. It feels downright cozy when you’re stuck in the desert miles from the nearest anything.
We take off our helmets and stow them in our helmet bags. Both of us are sweaty. Rainbow fishes a boonie hat out of her bag and puts it on. She grins. “I hoped I never had to use this in the desert, but I guess it comes in handy.”
I have my standard khaki garrison cover in my pocket and put it on. It feels strange to wear it. On the ship, typically the only headgear I’d wear is a flying helmet.
“Are you hungry?” asks one of the maintenance ponies.
“Yes!” Rainbow and I chorus.
They drop us at a building with a couple of levels. It looks like there might be rooms upstairs. Part of the ground level has a sign identifying it as a dining facility.
I look around as we go in, searching for the cashier To our surprise, it’s free. Like, free-free. Even freer than the wardroom dues we pay every month on the ship.
And the food is fabulous. We can smell it from the front door. I guess that’s the advantage of having a real kitchen and access to fresh ingredients that you can get every day instead of waiting for a supply ship to deliver canned food.
The ponies eating run the gamut from Air Force pilots to mechanics to other services and even some foreign ponies and other species allied to the war effort.
We’re not the only ones there wearing flight gear, spotting some ponies who are apparently alert crews or maybe just got back and were too hungry to wait.
We pause by a couple of pilots. “Hey,” I say. “We just got here and are looking for a place to rack out. Which deck is that on? What about the head?”
“And where can I put my cover?” asks Rainbow.
They stare at us blankly. “What do some of those words mean?” asks one.
Oh, right. Too many Navy words. I spot a stallion wearing cammo. “Hey Marine!”
He looks up. “Yes ma’am?”
“We just got here and are looking for a place to rack out. Which deck is that on? What about the head?”
“And where can I put my cover?” repeats Rainbow.
“The check-in for berthing is located one deck up. The head is in a separate building down the street. Covers go on the rack by the door,” he replies.
I never thought I’d have anything in common with jarheads, but at least we speak the same language for Celestia’s sake.
Rainbow and I eat the delicious, delicious food and then head upstairs. We get a room that is clean, though not as homey as our room back on the ship.
Rainbow pulls her phone out of her pocket and lets out an extended gasp. “We get wifi!”
“No way!” I’m instantly on my phone. Glorious, uncensored internet is within our grasp.
We spend a few minutes just soaking up the trons before either of us remember why we came here in the first place.
“We really should get going,” I remind Rainbow. “No telling when the exchange closes.”
She agrees. We drop our flight gear and head out. The store is about a quarter of a mile away.
It’s starting to get dark. Some fitness nuts are out for jogs or whatever. They’re all wearing fluorescent belts. And, they salute us.
On the ship, there isn’t much reason for salutes. You might get your head taken off by a jet if you pause and come to attention in the wrong place. Even ashore, the Navy doesn’t salute when wearing workout clothes, especially when uncovered. So Rainbow and I are both dumbstruck when the Air Force and Army ponies do it. And it happens again and again on the walk to the store. Of course, we have to return every salute.
But it’s worth it. The exchange is huge and lit up like a glittering oasis in the desert. They’ve got snacks and magazines and tactical gear and consumer goods and really anything anypony could ever want whether they’ve been on a ship for months or not.
And by Celestia, they have booze. Good Booze.
Rainbow snatches up a ceramic bottle with three X’s on it. “Aw yeah, this is the good stuff!”
“Moonshine? Isn’t that illegal to sell inside Equestria?”
“Yeah, it could cause you to go blind or something. But trust me, it’s the good stuff. My redneck friend says so.”
I shrug and pick up a few bottles. We go to the checkout. The cashier gives our change in little cardboard disks.
“What the heck are these?” Rainbow asks.
“We call ‘em pogs,” the cashier says. “You must be new here. They’re used at base exchange stores located overseas. They’re easier to transport back home to the Equestrian Treasury than metal bits.”
An interesting souvenir, maybe, but it makes me wonder how easy they would be to counterfeit. But that is of little consequence. We have our entry fee into the booze ring aboard the ship and we’ve got a little extra for tonight.
Unfortunately, months at sea have lowered our bodily tolerance and judgement when it comes to hard liquor as we shortly find out. I take the toilet and Rainbow takes the sink.
This is not how I want to see her. It’s not how I want her to see me. But as we’re sprawled together on the bathroom floor, she groans and offers a hoof. I groan back and brohoof her.
There’s no pony I’d rather be with when hammered to the point of puking at an Air Force restroom building somewhere in the middle of the desert of a third world country somewhere on the far side of the world.
We eventually get up and stumble back to the place we’re sleeping. It’s difficult to figure out why the Air Force decided to build a separate building for restrooms. But as I fall into the nice soft bed, I don’t care.
In the morning, though, I care. I need a shower and the only way to get one is to walk to the other building in the middle of a sandstorm. Rainbow and I squint and try not to breathe too much.
“Does this happen a lot?” she gasps as we make it inside.
“Yeah, a couple times a week,” says a pony passing us on the way out.
We go to find shower stalls. It doesn’t look like they get cleaned every day like they do on the ship. Also, the water is cold. What is this crap? At least on the ship, we have a reactor - we can get hot water.
Afterwards, manes still damp, we have to walk back through a sandstorm. At least an amazing breakfast with fresh fruit and made to order pancakes is waiting for us at the dining facility, although the coffee is terrible. By the time we finish eating, the sky is clearing up. The sandstorm is already being replaced by a heatwave and both of us are starting to invalidate our showers with sweat.
Smuggling the booze in our helmet bags, we try to find a ride. There are plenty of vehicles around and nopony seems too concerned about locking the doors.
Rainbow bumps my shoulder. “We should steal a tank.”
I think about it. “I’m not saying I don’t like the idea, but why?”
“Because it would be totally awesome. In the future, when we’re drinking, we can tell the story about that one time we stole a tank!”
I’m sold. However, before we can, an Air Force refueler crew pulls up in a van and asks if we need a ride.
Oh, all right. They’re heading in roughly the same direction we are and they actually know their way around the base. They aren’t the same ponies who were flying the tanker yesterday and we don’t mention how exactly we ended up here.
Returning to our jets, we find that they’re covered in a layer of dust. I scoop what I can out of the engine intakes and try not to let any get into the cockpit when I climb in.
Ahead of us, the long, wide runway stretches invitingly into the distance. We call the tower for permission to takeoff.
“Hang on a second, I have your paperwork,” replies the controller, a different one than we had the day before. “Let’s see, your callsigns are The Rapist eleven and The Rapist twelve.”
It takes a couple seconds of stunned disbelief before I realize the problem. “Therapist one-one, Therapist one-two.”
“What the buck,” Rainbow mutters in disbelief. I glance at her jet and see her shaking her head. “They’ve got great food, shopping, and alcohol, but terrible restrooms, weather, and coffee, not to mention the language barrier. How can Air Force bases be so awesome and yet simultaneously so shitty?”
That’s a pretty good summary: a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here. I feel a sudden longing to be back on the ship, where everything is uniformly mediocre.
We punch the throttles and get airborne. It’s a short hop back to the ship. Rainbow and I will probably get some ribbing from the other pilots about our little adventure, but it’ll be worth it. Now that we have what we need to gain entry to the inner circle of the clandestine speakeasy, we’re one step closer to figuring out what's going on.
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If War is Boring, then I guess you could say War. War never changes. Luckily, this won't devolve into nuclear fire.
6098204
What makes you so sure? 
Air force can't be that bad
6098240 I've spoken with Navy pilots who have visited Air Force bases. This is actually only slightly exaggerated. They do have their good points, but it's an alien environment for a tailhook pilot.
Lol! Heheheh. This is so true. My cousin is a Hornet jockey in the RCAF and worked with some carrier pilots during a maple flag ex. Her stories about their land-bound misadventures and reactions we just like this.
What I meant to write: "We're going to be doing some joint-attack ops with the flycolts."
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Ooosh! Score one for Team Unicorn.
That doesn't sound like it'd be very fun trying to fly with stiff wings. Probably some kind of ritualistic tribal nonsense those warmongering pegasi do to prove they're tough. It's just that statistics do show that pegasi are prone to violence, am I right?
Makes you wonder why we waste the money coming up with high-tech methods of killing people when they've got it all figured out themselves. I mean Equestria... whatever.
The Third-World has a hate/hate/hate relationship with the west. They hate it when we destroy their countries, and hate it when we repair their buildings and bring them our culture which makes theirs look like banging rocks together, and hate us even more when we bring them over here and give them massive amounts of welfare. Seriously, I hate this planet. I want a new one. Everyone involved with this one is a complete moron.
Implying those savages can even fly a jet. Those that could were former (insert pony analog for Soviet Union here) pilots and their jets date back to the 90's. How many people alive in Ponbekistan are still alive that can fly a vintage late 80's-early 90's jet? They're not exactly bicycles.
I actually laughed out loud at that! Sounds like a 70's exploitation movie title.
What a fun little hidden story.