13-12-2003, 01:09
........oh what a night! Late december, back in '63.......
Wing commander Yassir Weiss dances out to his parked F-22, painted in traditional Warwickish desert camoflauge. The ground crew finishes attaching two large, obelisk-like pods under the wing hardpoints, and loads a pair of Sidewinders into the weapons bay. Yassir climbs up the ladder, and a ground crewman shuts the canopy. As he looks to the west across the mountainous, brown, inhospitable landscape, he watches the sun set over a chain of snow-capped peaks. The airfield his group operates from is located in the rocky foothills of central warwick, and the taxiway leads into a cave blasted out of a mountain itself. The crew chief salutes him and hops down off the cockpit. Another ground crewman, helmeted, motions for the Wing Commander to start up his twin afterburning turbojet engines, old by most warwickish standards. Their standard JP-9 fuel is not used by most other Warwickish aircraft, such as the MiG-35, which in warwickish service uses an ethanol fuel. The jet engines start up without a hitch, and the crewman takes Yassir through his pre-flight test. Control surfaces- check. Weapons systems- check. Fly-by-wire- check. Nav- check. Soon, the familiar voice of control comes over the radio.
"Spyglass 1, this is tower control. Taxi to runway 2 on taxiway 4-22."
"Roger that, control."
The F-22 slowly moves out onto the runway, and waits for control's instructions.
"Spyglass 1, you are clear for takeoff."
"Roger that, clear for takeoff."
Yassir eases the throttle foreward, and the afterburners kick in, hurtling the jet twoards the end of the runway. Soon, it lifts off the ground entirely, and Yassir turns twoards the largely unpopulated eastern area of Warwick, a mix of Taiga forest and tundra, with some glacial covering. The southeast of Warwick also is home to the main WN facility, Vladivostok, home to the bulk of the warwickish navy. Why they weren't performing Yassir's mission, they did not know. He climbs to 30,000 feet, the setting sun to his back, and soon reaches supercruise.
"Control, this is Spyglass 1. On ingress route, ETA three hours."
"Roger that Spyglass. Prepare for handover to Hound-2. Contact on 33-1-21."
"Roger that. Frequency set."
"Spyglass 1, this is Hound-2. Agknowledging handover."
The huge Ilyushin AWACS could be seen-just barely- to the north of Yassir's aircraft, its giant radar dome painted white and black.
Meanwhile, somewhere in eastern warwick........
"Ah....its a beautiful night tonight, don't you think?"
A tall, thin man puffs on a cigar in the cold northern air. He and his companion stand outside of their Forigen-made SUV, parked aside of a narrow dirt road which ran to a compound in the distance across the tundra. His companion, however, sits cross-legged on the snow.
"Please, sir! I only saw a little! I promise I won't ever do it again! I promise."
The tall, thin man takes another puff on his cigar, and chuckles in a low tone.
"Ah, I am very sorry John. Promises are just not quite good enough."
He draws a Beretta 9mm from his inside suit pocket, and aims it at his companion's head.
"Goodbye, John. I wish we could have spent some more time together. But buisiness is buisiness, I guess."
He pulls the trigger, and his companion falls over backwards in the snow.
OCC: Ok, here's the gist of things. There's this terrorist organization trying to start a rebellion in warwick to overthrow the government. Your characters can be fellow terrorists, mercenaries, arms dealers, venture capitalists interested in a chunk of Warwickish oil fields, or antiterror forces trying to crack down on them.
Wing commander Yassir Weiss dances out to his parked F-22, painted in traditional Warwickish desert camoflauge. The ground crew finishes attaching two large, obelisk-like pods under the wing hardpoints, and loads a pair of Sidewinders into the weapons bay. Yassir climbs up the ladder, and a ground crewman shuts the canopy. As he looks to the west across the mountainous, brown, inhospitable landscape, he watches the sun set over a chain of snow-capped peaks. The airfield his group operates from is located in the rocky foothills of central warwick, and the taxiway leads into a cave blasted out of a mountain itself. The crew chief salutes him and hops down off the cockpit. Another ground crewman, helmeted, motions for the Wing Commander to start up his twin afterburning turbojet engines, old by most warwickish standards. Their standard JP-9 fuel is not used by most other Warwickish aircraft, such as the MiG-35, which in warwickish service uses an ethanol fuel. The jet engines start up without a hitch, and the crewman takes Yassir through his pre-flight test. Control surfaces- check. Weapons systems- check. Fly-by-wire- check. Nav- check. Soon, the familiar voice of control comes over the radio.
"Spyglass 1, this is tower control. Taxi to runway 2 on taxiway 4-22."
"Roger that, control."
The F-22 slowly moves out onto the runway, and waits for control's instructions.
"Spyglass 1, you are clear for takeoff."
"Roger that, clear for takeoff."
Yassir eases the throttle foreward, and the afterburners kick in, hurtling the jet twoards the end of the runway. Soon, it lifts off the ground entirely, and Yassir turns twoards the largely unpopulated eastern area of Warwick, a mix of Taiga forest and tundra, with some glacial covering. The southeast of Warwick also is home to the main WN facility, Vladivostok, home to the bulk of the warwickish navy. Why they weren't performing Yassir's mission, they did not know. He climbs to 30,000 feet, the setting sun to his back, and soon reaches supercruise.
"Control, this is Spyglass 1. On ingress route, ETA three hours."
"Roger that Spyglass. Prepare for handover to Hound-2. Contact on 33-1-21."
"Roger that. Frequency set."
"Spyglass 1, this is Hound-2. Agknowledging handover."
The huge Ilyushin AWACS could be seen-just barely- to the north of Yassir's aircraft, its giant radar dome painted white and black.
Meanwhile, somewhere in eastern warwick........
"Ah....its a beautiful night tonight, don't you think?"
A tall, thin man puffs on a cigar in the cold northern air. He and his companion stand outside of their Forigen-made SUV, parked aside of a narrow dirt road which ran to a compound in the distance across the tundra. His companion, however, sits cross-legged on the snow.
"Please, sir! I only saw a little! I promise I won't ever do it again! I promise."
The tall, thin man takes another puff on his cigar, and chuckles in a low tone.
"Ah, I am very sorry John. Promises are just not quite good enough."
He draws a Beretta 9mm from his inside suit pocket, and aims it at his companion's head.
"Goodbye, John. I wish we could have spent some more time together. But buisiness is buisiness, I guess."
He pulls the trigger, and his companion falls over backwards in the snow.
OCC: Ok, here's the gist of things. There's this terrorist organization trying to start a rebellion in warwick to overthrow the government. Your characters can be fellow terrorists, mercenaries, arms dealers, venture capitalists interested in a chunk of Warwickish oil fields, or antiterror forces trying to crack down on them.