NationStates Jolt Archive

The Command ship Thunder, 01:45

The Air Operations Control Room, or AirCon, of the command ship Thunder was a quiet, studious place. Ranks of instruments glowed with etheral green light beneath the inadequate, dirty yellow of the room's lighting. The walls were invisible behind panel after panel, dealing with inputs from the ship's own radar and LADAR systems, her own helicopters and UAVs. Other consoles were tasked with receiving data from the other ships in the formation, while the largest of them collated the various streams of information and fed what they had done to the Admiral's master computer on his bridge. The labour and time that had gone into making this miraculous feat of integration and labour-reduction was seldom if ever acknowledged by the men and women sitting behind those luminous green monitors; indeed, they scarcely commented on their electronic comrades unless they developed some flaw, at which point their comments consisted of angry curses and reprimands.

The operators were tired. Their shift had started at midnight, and would continue until four in the morning, when the next unfortunate group would be forced to haul themselves from their hammocks, no doubt tho the irritation of all of their sleeping comrades, and proceed with bleary eyes and half-awake minds to the AirCon. Until that wonderful, blissful moment, they had to sit here and watch the screens. The ship's air-conditioning had stopped functioning in their compartment, and the room's stifling heat was compounded by the still, moist air that hung around the operators, reluctant to enter their lungs and giving no refreshment when it had the grace to do so. Their sole solace was a machine in the corner, liberally supplied with coffee granules and teabags, and the refrigerator on which it rested. A cold beer would have been divine, but chilled orange juice was the closest thing they could get. Nonetheless, to drink it was heavenly after having gone an hour without any liquid at all in that muggy, oppressive room, surrounded by the heat from their sweating bodies and the sweatless machines.

On the Outside Source Monitors, a new contact appeared. Its label denoted it as a surface target, being fed from the ever-watching AWACS that circled, with graceful, plodding turns, high above them in the starry air. The Chief Outside Source Monitor (Air), or CHOSOMA, punched the interphone that rang through to her superior on the Admiral's Bridge. The interphone clicked, and a tired voice spoke.

"Admiral's Bridge," it intoned dully.

"Chosoma. New surface contact, coming from bearing approximate three-four-six, picked up by Eagle One."

"IFF?" the voice asked, maintaining a tone of even, bored lack of interest.

"Negative. No IFF."

The voice became more interested. "Right. Carry on." The interphone went dead.

The CHOSOMA went back to peering at her display, half-aware of what it said, and was quite annoyed when the interphone rang for her.

"Chosoma."

"Admiral's Bridge. Order one of Echo One's escorts to get a look at this guy." The phone switched off again.

"Wow, you're feeling polite," she muttered at the interphone. Picking up her mike, she wondered which stupid fisherman had gotten caught by the radar this time.

"Eagle One, this is Blitzen, do you copy, over?" she waited as the message flashed out to the AWACS, some 400 miles away, bouncing off a pair of satellites before coming back to their earpieces, being encrypted along the way.

"Eagle one here, go ahead Blitzen," replied the AWACS after what she felt an interminable delay.

"Send one escort to investigate contact Romeo three-one, over."

"Roger, Blizten. Eagle one out."

************************************************

The AWACS sent a quick message to one of the Su-33Bs orbiting her in the clouds below. The fighter's pilot, young, impetuous and altogether not very bright, swung his plane into a shallow dive, accelerating to 550 knots as he turned towards the ship. He was eager to see some adventure, and this boring patrol was going to liven up a lot if this turned out to be a hostile. The fact that, if it was hostile, he had a decent chance of being blown into very small fragments of himself appeared not to have occurred to this "godlike" individual. His aircraft descended towards the sea, her radar shut down to give no warning of her approach, and roared towards the unknown ship that lay somewhere beyond the horizon.

L.S.S. Kagger, a Dreamer Shark-class destroyer

01:50

Lieutenant Ges sat on the floor of the torn commander room, the radio in his left hand buzzing an empty static. In front of him, a mosiac of blood and metal punctured the area where the radar and sonar stations used to be. A body in the shredded green uniform of the ships' former commander agains the wall, in two pieces.

The ship itself had sustained damage from all over, and virtually none of the remaining helicopters, CIWS, or VLS cells were operational. The lone, 5" gun was, but they were barely enough men left alive on the ship to use it.

Suddenly, a slight buzz ran overhead. Standing up slowly, Ges lef the tower and climbed down a twisted ladder to where a group of enigns stodd, pointing up excitedly. "Lieutenant," one cried, "Lieutenant, look! It's a plane! A flyover!"

The first thought that ran through Ges's head was one of utter fear. Tre's planes had found us. But then, it didn't sound like a Lindimese plane. An emissary from that foreign fleet? Ges almost felt happy again until he realized that the foreigners probably had no idea whether the destroyer he now commanded was a Loyalist or Socialist. He wasn't sure which position would save him. "Increase the speed to whatever we can get! Thirty knots!" he shouted as he pulled himself back up the ladder.

Scrambling through the mess, Ges found the radio's controls and reset the frequency to the international emergency standard. "This is Lieutenant Ges of the Lindimese destroyer Kagger. I repeat, this is the presiding officer of the Lindimese destroyer Kagger. We have take severe enemy damage and have lost nearlly all electronic systems, but we can still run ourself." Ges left out the fact their weapons weren't working. If he answered wrong here, they needed the possibility of bluffing. "We are Loyalist. I repeat, we are a Loyalist ship, supporting the true Lindimese government under siege!"

A deep breath and: "We need help."

OOC: Yeah, I think it will be more interesting for the destroyer to lack almost all electronic systems. It's a pretty battered ship, pretty much only able to radio and move about normally.

It is able to navigate, though, the old fashioned way. Maps.

The Flanker flashed over the battered destroyer, the pilot taking no chances in spite of his conspicuous lack of much intelligence. Low and fast, barely visible against the choppy seas, he waited until he was a good two miles clear of the ship before pulling his fighter into a tight turn and heading back for a closer look, this time throttling back as he did so. His eyes traced over the dark, hulking outline of the ship below him. Even without the benefit of good illumination, he knew that something had to be very wrong with her. Where there should have been an unbroken black mass, it was obvious that there were holes. Not just small holes, but holes that he could have fed the fighter into without much difficulty, had he been so inclined. As he passed the ship, he noticed that her steering was erratic, leaving a wavy, drunken wake to trail behind her like slug's slime. Deck fittings could be seen hanging loose at the mounts, and he thought he caught the faint flicker of fire from between upturned deck-beams and rent plating. Grimly, he accelerated away and toggled his transmit switch.

"Eagle One, this is Storo four. We got a ship down there, and in pretty bad shape. She's making about thirty knots, holding an erratic course of about one-seven-four degrees, and looks to have taken a lot of punishment. Over."

"Roger Storo four," responded the diembodied voice of the AWACS controller. "Switch to international emergency channel and investigate."

"Roger, Eagle one. Storo four out."

Again he turned his Flanker in towards the destroyer, slowing yet further to get a better view of her state of repair. While he closed the range, he carefully tuned to the international emergency frequency and listened. Static was his sole companion. He cranked up the volume. Surely that ship couldn't be dead...

"...Loyalist ship, supporting the true Lindimese government under siege...we need help."

The pilot quickly transmitted back to the AWACS, informing the bored controllers of the ship's origin and intentions. While he circled, as he had been ordered to, the nearest aircraft carrier sent four Ka-27 helicopters, laden with fuel and medical supplies, on a course to make contact with the destroyer.

The Thunder

Adrmial Harwood spun round in his Admiral's Swivelly Chair, a long-respected perk and mark of office among the seniormost officers of the Navy. He smiled almost beguilingly at the captain of this monster warship, blowing out a cloud of smoke from a cheroot.

"We have a most interesting situation, here, Morrow," he drawled, watching the smoke as it was drawn into the ceiling vents. "The importance of that one little destroyer is quite out of proportion to its...tiny size." He blew out another cloud of smoke and leaned forward, towards his computer screen.
"We know that it's a damaged Limdimese Loyalist ship, and that it's making all the speed it can towards us. We know that it's probably lost just about all of its electronic equipment. We also know that its crew can provide us with reports of exactly what's going on at sea, which is important." He puffed thoughtfully on the glowing cheroot. "We can perhaps finally persuade our masters to slip the chains on our ships, eh?"

Captain First Rank John Morrow gave a mirthless laugh.

"Not bloody likely, old boy," he replied in a voice that was quite absurdly British. "They'll sit there and say it's unconfirmed testimony from a single source, not enough to commit a fleet on, and that'll be that, and we both know it."

"True. But what if the destroyer were not Loyalist?" asked Harwood, with a quizzical expression.

Morrow scoffed. "We'd have sunk it about an hour ago."

"If we thought it to be loyalist?"

Morrow looked puzzled.

"Not sure I follow you, sir."

"Oh come on, John. You're surely as sick of just sitting here as I am, right?"

Morrow's voice took on a weary tone. "Yes, I am, but we can't disobey Admiralty orders, and --"

"Who says we're going to disobey any orders?" snapped Harwood. "listen. What would you do if that destroyer took advantage of our repairs and whatnot, then, say, shelled a few of our ships and ran like hell?"

"Launch so many cruise missiles at it there wouldn't even by fragments left," he replied shortly. "I don't see the relevance."

"For God's sake man!" exclaimed Harwood. "If a Socialist unit attacks us, surely we must give battle?"

"Of course, but they're not social-- OH!"

Harwood smiled sardonically. "Got it, have we, John?"

"That's insane! What possible reason could they have for doing that? Why the hell would we let them get refuelled and repaired here if we had doubts?"

"Do you have doubts, John?"

"Of course not, I think they're genuine."

"Indeed. So do I. That's why they'll understand the importance of what they're going to do."

Taggity #TAG#

L.S.S. Kagger, a Dreamer Shark-class destroyer

Ges jumped up and down at the site of the helicopters, forgetting his presence and rank in front of the other men. When he did, he was mildly surprised to find out he didn't care. Civil war in Lindim was horrible and his ship had been one fo the few Loyalist ships to escape the Socialists of the Northern Fleets. Fuck Admiral Sero, fuck them all! He and his men were going ot escape the hell that was Lindim.

He cleared all of his men off the landing pads, which had survived the destruction of the destroyer's original helicopters. As the helicopters landed, he grabbed one of the celebrating ensign by the arm. "Go down and grab our surviving doctor, right? We want to get our injured help as soon as possible. Our fuel, however low, is a secondary priority. Move!"

OOC: Sorry for such a short post, but I'm in a rush right now. You can RP the conversation between my men on the destroyer and the helicopter crews.

**************

A stray group of five Loyalist heavy cruisers, recently escaped unscathed from the predominantly Socialist Northern Fleets

"Point Echo, this is Commander Trael of the Blue Fish, you seeing what I'm seeing, straight west of us?"

"Yeah, is that a Lindimese ship, bearing un, bre, ni?"

"The new Dreamer Shark-class of destroyers. But it's damaged pretty badly, and some helicopters are approaching it. I think they're foreign."

"Confirmed, Trael, they're DPUO. Probably from a contigent of the DPUO fleet."

"Oh shit. DPUO's pretty socialist, right?"

"Yeah but they're in the OMP-"

"But they're socialist. And I heard Tre's got some connections in their government."

"Commanders, this is Hacwi of the Rear Guard Rush. Are you implying the DPUO fleet is going to take advantage of the destroyer?"

"Grab some POWs?"

"Are we in combat range?"

"Almost, but not quite."

"Yeah, POWs seem to be a smart move from them. This is Duytre chiming in."

"Let's stay back for now, and wait and see. Ready your crews just in case."

"Consider that confirmed."

"Nightingale Flight, this is Nightingale lead, maintain delta at range 600 metres astern of me, over." The pilot of the lead Kamov listened to a chorus of "copy" and "roger" responses from her three fellow-pilots and did her best to match speed and course with the surging warship beneath her. You couldn't even stay still, you bastards! "Come on, come on..." she muttered, descending the tiny, insectlike machine towars the pitching helipad. She thanked her luck that the sea wasn't choppier. This was how Ivanko had bought it, back in carrier training; one moment the little, ageing Ka-25 had been hovering deftly above the carrier's flight-deck; the next, a spreading puddle of orange fire was his only gravestone, rolling over the drenched decks...

Slowly and carefully, she brought the little helicopter down onto the miraculously intact helipad on the ship's stern. As the wheels bumped on the reassuring metal surface, she felt the tension rush from her body, and grinned.

"Nightingale lead here. Bring them down, lads!" she concluded triumphantly, before setting the radio down and shutting the helicopter's engines off. She climbed from the cramped cockpit and stretched her long, slim legs, removing gratefully her flight helmet. She launched into a barrage of cursing as her hair, not trimmed for some time, billowed out around her eyes in a chestnut curtain; having stuffed the helment back on as a temporary windbreak, she jogged towards the bedraggled Lieutenant.

"G'day lieutenant!" she beamed, shouting above the noise of the other three helicopters.

"Glad you made it," replied Ges, languidly shaking her hand. "We've got a hell of a lot of work for you, I'm afraid. Lot of casualties."

"How many?" she asked, her voice somewhat more subdued.

"About twenty in a critical condition. Another thirty who can be operated on here. Our ship's surgeon's worked himself half to death overnight. Damn those pinko bastards!" he rasped savagely. "They killed so many good people."

She looked at him, her normally hard and cold features softening a little. "Somebody once said that war is hell, and I guess he was right." Then she bacame her normal self. "Where are they?"

"Follow me," replied Ges, and set off at a surprising pace across the wet deck, with the twenty medical personnel in tow.

The pilot marveled at the destruction around her. A gaping hole in one side of the weather deck, with bent deck-beams poking upwards like great, jagged teeth; a whole section of the superstructure nothing more than a mass of twisted metal. Here and there, dull red-brown stains marked the resting place of dead men - or parts of dead men at any rate. All around her was the stench of death, mixed in with the odour of fuel oil and scorched paintwork. She shook her head. Man, thy name is folly.

L.S.S. Kagger

Ges shook his head as the medical personel entered the cramped medical bay; ironically it seemed one of the few areas of the ship that survived the attacks without damage. The patients which spilled out into the hallways as wounded men lay about moaning, their snow-white sheets dribbled with blood. Three assistants ran back and forth fetching tools and water for the surgeon, whose uniform had soaked through with sweat. He finished sewing a stitch along the neck of one sailor before looking up at the arrived medical team. A smile, seeming so out of place, broke out and he shook his thinning hair back.

"Corporal, we're going to get the twenty crits out of here, while these other men and women will address the rest here," Ges said, stepping carefully over a man who seemed to be missing both of his legs. Ges couldn't stop himself from wincing at the groans; these were his men, dammit!

The surgeon nodded gracefully and turned to the medics. "Those worst cases are on the beds behind me, they needed stabilization as soon as possible before anything else. The others may be operated on here, but I am worried about chances of infection..." his voice trailed off as he led the medical team around the hallway and room, highlighting difficult cases and pointing out those who could wait ahwile. Ges watched him and the chaotic scene, before leaving the medical bay with a sigh, gesturing to the pilot to follow.

Ges pulled himself up the ladder and winded through a broken hallway until he reached the outside again. He turned to the pilot and ran his hand through his black hair, trying to put the images of the scene below out of his mind. "Sorry about not cutting the ship's speed, I'm sure that-"

She waved his comments away. "We landed fine. What do you need to talk about?"

Ges raised his eyebrows but answered her question. "Look, we appreciate your help and I am sure the Lindimese government, or what's left of it, will be grateful to yours as well. But other than information, I'm afraid we can't offer you anything. I think it's best if you could escort us to the nearest port fo yours." He paused and looked out over the sea. It seemed empty to him, but he had served long enough to know that war made traitors of your senses. "I don't think there is a single port in all of Lindim we could make it to, alive, and even if you help us repair fully, we are not in a state where we could wage war effectively." He spread his hands out and shrugged. "I do wish I could do something, though."

OOC: "War makes traitors of the senses." - Lindimese Naval First Lieutenant Ges Firwen.

**************

Loyalist Lindimese heavy cruiser group

"Sonar is not picking up any submarines."

"Do we have access to the sonar array?"

"Still cut off, I think Tre might have it by now."

"No friendly submarines, or hostile ones, for that matter, are in the area."

"No visible change in the destroyer's situation."

"Stay out of combat range, but continue to hold your patterns."

"We've crews readied."

"Good."

The pilot's face was tinged with infinite sadness as she looked upon the bleeding, maimed men before her. Such a senseless waste of life, and all for the sake of an argument. She issued swift orders to her team to load the critical personnel onto stretchers and get them onto the waiting helicopters, looking out through the remains of a scuttle as she chewed on Ges' words.

"I'll put in a message detailing your situation, and see what comes about." She sighed and hooked a stray bit of hair behind her ear.
"I wouldn't tell the rest of your men this," she added, "but the chances of getting a ship detached to escort you in aren't that high. Last I heard we had strict orders to remain in the harbours in case of submarines attacks." She paused, and said awkwardly: "I'm sorry. I really am, but we can't risk our own men's lives as well."

The two walked back along the ravaged, blackened corridor towards the helicopter deck, and stood on a walkway, looking at the large metal platforms. Against the backcloth of the grey ship and the equally grey sky, her helicopters seemed minute and terribly fragile. Below them, a stretcher case was just being raised into the waiting Kamov. As the stretcher was half-in, half-out of the hatchway, a particularly bad wave sent the destroyer rolling; the orderlies lost their grip on the lower end of the stretcher fell onto the deck with a dull thud. The patient gave a long, low moan.

"How long's that doctor been working?" she asked, suddenly remembering the sweat-stained, bloody man who had emerged from the hell belowdecks.

"About eighteen hours," replied Ges, yawning. "Long night."

She smiled thinly. "I can believe it. We'll fly out a crew to relieve him as soon as we can."

The last of the criticals was slowly, painfully heaved onto the little helicopter. The pilot sighed again at what she had seen. Never taking her eyes off the whipping sea, she gave Ges what little encouragement she had to give.

"We'll be back within about five, maybe six hours. Meantime I'll try and put in a good word for you with their majesties of command. She turned to him, and examined his face for a moment, realising as she did so that it was that of a man who had seen far too much, far too quickly. "Hold on, eh?"

**********************************************

The four Ka-27s vanished into the grey gloom that is the inevitable accompaniment of rough weather at sea, leaving no trace of their ever having existed. Within their small, cramped passenger compartments, the surgeons worked to save those who could be saved. Some could not. They would be buried later, with all the necessary trimmings; right now, there was little time to pay homage to the dead.

The intelligence room at the Ministry of Defence stood in obvious disrepair, despite its name, less than standard building specs had been used, and the room constantly suffered from design deficiencies. Admiral Hugh BlaTAGh stared at the computer screen below him. Although unseen from the high-orbit observation satellites, the Commonwealth had several submarines operating withing Lindimese waters, in addition to the battle groups on the southern end of the archipelago and the forces deployed at the Andaman and Nicobar Island territories. There were also combat troops deployed on one of the northern islands. BlaTAGh continued, breezing through the icons displaying critical data about the foreign ships he saw below. More Lindimese vessels and one from DPUO, another little incident in this growing conflict...

OOC: As a general point, you shouldn't bury the dead soldiers of another nation. Lindimese tradition is cremating the body and spreading the ashes over the sea. It's a holdover from the old, pagan ways.

On another note, excellent roleplaying. I am in awe and bow down to you.

L.S.S. Kagger

Ges watched the helicopters disappear over the horizon, and slumped against a railing, his hands gripping the burnt paint tightly. "Hold on? It's the only thing I can do," he mumbled to himself, before heading back down to the medical bay.

Weaving through the familiar, if now less painful and less crowded site, he let the grateful surgeon get a few hours of rest, though the assistants were kept on duty. Then he worked his way up to what was left of the command tower and tried flicking on the intercom. After a few, brief bursts of static, it finally went dead. Ges worked his way back down and found a Third Lieutenant, an electronics officer just from sick bay.

"Yes sir?" the young man asked, his hands still bandaged in gauze.

"Listen, I understand you just came out but-"

The junior officer smiled. "Want me to get working on the electronics? Well, the radar's shot to hell unless these DPUO's can pull one out of their asses, which I don't doubt, but I think the contorls for some VLS cells could be reworked."

Ges smiled and saluted. "Glad to see your still alive."

The junior officer saluted in return and barked a horase laugh out. "As am I."

Meanwhile, out over the sea, five cruisers moved in very slowly, creeping towards the destroyer but still out of range, even to the DPUO's fleet. They waited.

OOC: This is something DPUO would have received, a message from Tre. Everyone else received it too.

MESSAGE FROM UNKNOWN LOCATION

To the Distinguished Foreigners,

As you are attacking my country, you may think you could attack my command outpost, if you have found it. Unfortunately, you might want to hold that action as a last resort. Fuego is my hostage, and as much as I dislike commmon terrorist tactics, I will kill her if you attempt action against this base.

I propose a twenty-four hour ceasefire while both sides may meet and have a civil discussion. During that ceasefire, any cruise missile strikes will provoke retaliation against the current Capitalizt government, which I can target anywhere, anytime. If you agree, you may decide upon the location and time of your choice. Threats against me, of course, will result in Fuego's death.

In addition, unless you are truely prepared to fight a war of unimaginable proportions, you might consider pulling your fleets from Lindimese waters. You might be fighting overseas with the support of your people, but if the fighting comes to your own country you will find it much more difficult.

With Honesty and Trust
Tre

OOC: As a general point, you shouldn't bury the dead soldiers of another nation. Lindimese tradition is cremating the body and spreading the ashes over the sea. It's a holdover from the old, pagan ways.

On another note, excellent roleplaying. I am in awe and bow down to you.


OOC: Why thankyou! :P

The dead-guy-burial thing: yep, fair enough, but if the guy can't be brought back to you he'll be buried at sea, as per naval tradition. That's not likely though, so odds are he'll be flown back to you.

And Azazia: nice tag. :D

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

IC: The pilot sat alone in the pilot's mess, quietly making an attempt at eating a plate of fish that steamed invitingly in front of her. She wasn't hungry; no matter what she did, the face of one particular casualty came back to her time and again.

The young man had been wrapped in bandages, and those bandages had been soaked in his blood even when he was loaded onto the helicopter, bravely smiling at her through the bands of white over his face and body and the mists of his own pain and the morphine in his blood. By the time they had made their way back to the carrier, the man - no, she reminded herself, he was just a boy! - had appeared as if dipped in blood. They had rushed him, unconscious and still bleeding, to the ship's infirmary. She had watched him go in, and had been walking away when a nurse had bolted out, pushing past her, and skidded round a corner to a block of toilets.

Quietly, she had entered the pungent, plasticky sterility of the theatre, at first just poking her head around the door, and moved into position until she could see her erstwhile cargo. At that moment, she had understood why the nurse had run out of the room.

The boy's body was torn apart. His intestines hung from his abdomen in a long, blood-tinged string or grey, writhing as though possessed of their own volition. Blood squirted from his punctured veins and arteries, adding further to the confusion of fluids seeping from his broken, distorted body. She had watched as the surgeons had frantically tried to stanch the flow of blood, before giving up. The ECG monitor linked to his barely-moving chest had finally given the long, high squal that signalled his death a moment later, and the orderlies had duly covered him over, wheeled him out to the ship's mortuary, and brought in another casualty. But if they coudl forget him, she could not. She remembered his face, smiling despite the undoubtedly horrific pain of his injuries, and then she broken, bloody sack of flesh on the operating table, and picked at the fish numbly.

OOC: DPUO, it's your turn to move the plot ahead, right now only the wait consumes the Lindimese.

L.S.S. Blue Fish

Commander Trael sipped his glass of water, re-reading his favorite novel. The only sound in his cabin was the rustling of pages and the occasional sip of water. Several papers laid across his desk, and on his computer screen glowed a leaked message from Tre, the one sent to all the foreign leaders.

But Trael didn't want to think about it, and was planning to ignore it. He would obey a cease-fire, but it wasn't between him the the DPUO ships. Socialism had ripped Lindim apart, Lindim, the utterfly peaceful and near utopian country that had been... the Heaven of Sea since the Last Ruining. All and any Socialists had to redress such an action. War was simply the method of redressing, and Trael the tax collector.

**************

L.S.S. Kagger

Ges sipped his coffee as he leaned out over the railing, looking out over the sea. His ship sat dead in the waters, and it was under Her control now. He looked out each wave lapping against the broken and twisted metal of the hull, and smiled bitterly. Coffee. He nearly spat it out at irony. His possessions, his cabin had been saved, had been preserved, even the magnetic peices of the Go game he and the commander had been playing were preserved.

Behind him, he heard the mutterings of the junior officer as he ran wires over burnt ones and was constantly unplugging and replugging his laptop into the ships electronics. Or what was left of it, as it was dead now.

Ges shook his head and spat out his coffee. No, not dead. Electronics stopped working; his men died. His men? He didn't even know the name of the junior officer behind him, nor the captain that ran gun munitions, nor... almost anyone. He was no commander, he was a poser.

War. Whoever idolized it or enjoyed was a sicko. War was a disgusting thing, and as an officer of the Navy Ges was not ashamed to say it sickened him. He joined to the Navy because when he was young nothing brought him more joy then running a sailboat out into the Yill Bay and fish. He was not fit to fight war.

Only lunatics are. War is the release of our inner lunatics, and those who are sane avoid it at all costs. He didn't care about economic philosophies or who was right in this war, or even what should happen to Tre if she is caught; Ges just wanted to go home to his wife and daughter and spend his life idly relaxing on a seashore.

Ges gave his coffeee one last look of disgust and threw the cup out onto the ocean, where it disappeared before bobbing back up, the coffee mixing in with the sea water. A few sailors looked up at him, but he had already gone back to his cabin.

OOC: Sorry 'bout the delay, we're getting a bit out of sync as I go back to edit typose and whatnot and then add loads of stuff.


NSB Headquarters, Krasniy Novgorod

A messenger was sprinting through the long, drab passages of the NSB's HQ. He ran down flights of stairs to avoid the indifferent lifts, barrelled between members of the various intelligence sections, skidded around corneers with a squeal of rubber, and finally stopped outside a large and innoccuous-looking door labelled, "MacDiarmid", followed by "head of operations." There he banged politely on the door, twice.

A muffled voice responded with "yes?" from within. The messenger stepped into the office, taking in the buff-painted walls, clean white light on the equally white ceiling, and the oversize desk which took up a sizeable proportion of the room's space.

"Message from the Foreign Section, sir!" said the messenger, handing over the slip of paper and standing to attention.

MacDiarmid looked up from the folders before him and read the message. He raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Thankyou, private. Dismissed." He waited until the private had left the room, and then picked up his seldom-used red telephone.

*********************************************

Prime Minister's Office
30 minutes later

"This sounds to me like the kind of trick the Politburo used to pull. Negotiate to buy yourself time." Mac listened, impassive, as the Defence Minister gave his assessment of the slip of paper from Tre. "She has to know that if it comes to a straight fight, her navy's as good as dead; once she's lost the ability to defend herself at sea all the air power on earth doesn't matter. She wants to buy time for herself, maybe force us into a negotiated peace with idle threats that civvies will take to be real," spat Kazakov. "I say we ignore this outright."

"No!" replied the Prime Minister. "It's quite possible that you,re right, Mikhail, and I know it, we all know it. But IF she's on the ropes, we might be able to press her for terms unfavourable to her. If we demonstrate that she's in the weaker position, and we demonstrate that we know that she's in the weaker position, maybe we can force her to back off."

"Mm, maybe." MacDiarmid puffed on the pipe in his hand, a pleasure which he had only just re-discovered. "We think, however, that she would happily kill Fuego if she thought we weren't prepared to come to table."

"Ach, she's bluffing! She'd never kill Fuego now." Kazakov coughed noisily.

"And why not, might I ask?" enquired MacDiarmid.

"Simple: she's their only major bargaining counter, and she knows it. If she kills Fuego now, she's got nothing to slow us down. Not only that, but if she kills Fuego now, it'll just harden the resolve of the loyalists in Lindim itself, not to mention give extra motivation to the friendly forces and turn away the more moderate members who aren't baying for the woman's blood."

Jones looked unhappy with the idea. "That's a large risk to take with the leader of a foreign nation."

"Moreover, the leader of a foreign nation who has an overwhelming degree of public support. If she died because we refused to negotiate, this Tre woman has everything she needs to portray herself as a moderate who was forced by Fuego and her foreign allies to drastic action. Our lack of negotiation merely proves just what kind of people she was assosciated with: people who'll make war without care for the population of Lindim." MacDiarmid puffed triumphantly. "It'd be a political disaster, and quite possible a huge blow for our standing with the loyalists. What if they think we're in cahoots with Tre? we refuse to negotiate, so she kills Fuego. I guarantee you, people would start to ask: 'why didn't they negotiate? Maybe they wanted Fuego out of the way?'

"If I may," interposed Jones, seeing a row brewing, "I would like to add that in human terms alone we have more to gain by negotiation than not. At risk are the lives of thousands of servicemen of our nation, thousands of servicement on both sides of the Lindimese divide and tens of thousands in the allied fleets. Possibly just as importantly, there is the life of a legitimate leader and a helpless and probably frightened woman at stake too. That little fact alone may be of great importance, gentlemen." His tone was pointed as he ended, and silence descended in a stiff cloud over the room.

Jones sighed. "Of course, all we're really saying is that there's plenty of reason for either." He smlied laconically, and watched it spread onto the faces of the other three men, including the strangely silent Foreign Minister.

"Well," said Schützer, as though taking his cue from a hidden prompter. "I could go myself, represent us. Assuming we send someone, that is."

The silence returned.

"Oh, fine!" Kazakov relented gracelessly. "You alays knew how to play the waiting game, Marcus, I'll give you that." His face crinkled with a wry grin.

"Well, pack your bags, Anton." Jones beamed at the Froeign Minister.

"Aye, will do." He stood and moved for the door. "By the way: I don't agree with you, Marcus. Everything in me tells me that the maxim here is simple: never negotiate with terrorists, for you will only encourage further terror." He left the room with a philosophical air.

Jones nodded slightly, his expression cold. Let's hope you're wrong, old boy.

To: Leader of Lindimese Socialists (Tre)
From: DPUO Foreign Office

We will allow our Foreign minister to travel to the location arranged. Any harm done to him, or any attempt at such, will be met with extreme and unnecessary (but liberally applied) force.

Provide us with the location and time of this meeting when all details are finalised.

OOC: Where's the negotiation going to go on?

OOC: No clue, waiting for people in the other thread to decide. I figure that as the negotiations occur, the DPUO will talk with the destroyer and "chase" it, beginning the pursuit of the Lindimese Loyalist cruisers. It would provide a nice backdrop to the negotiations... if they ever occur.

Also, the Lindimese Socialist fleet isn't broken back, but the ground and air war is being won by the allied forces and the Loyalists. However, the Socialist fleet is about a day away from Tenb, the Loyalist HQ and all the foreign fleets which have pulled back.

Call it an intelligence error. The negotiations will probably be in a separate thread.

OOC: This belongs in the other thread, and let's keep this to the plot of Kagger, DPUO, and the Loyalist cruisers. However, one more response. By the way, this is why I love Tre so much. She is brilliant, well-meaning, and utterly scary.

Unknown location

Tre's finger's ran over the keyboard immediately upon reception of the DPUO response, dropping off a line to the leaders of several low-profile countries. They no doubt thought of her as a common terrorist, perhaps one that is bluffing.

DPUO. A socialist nation, so why was it opposing her? She would hate to have to punish it with a nuclear strike, but if she had to... Sighing, she flipped the laptop's lid closed and slid it into her briefcase. She would address the situation later. She would continue to slow down Sero; she didn't want to decimate the allied fleets yet, and she could care less about the ground battles.

Tre stood and exited her office, meeting with the highest-ranking Special Forces soldier in the dark and dimly lit hallways. "Is it ready?" she asked quietly, looking down the hallway at the door that contained Fuego. "I want to leave as soon as possible."

The soldier nodded wordlessly and gestured to the side of him, as a secret panel slid open to reveal yet another long hallway.

Tre nodded and gestured to the soldier and the five others she would bring with her. They all carried rifles. She gave her temporary base one last look, and walked off down the metal corridor as the soldiers shut the secret panel and followed after her.

Fuego was left behind. And Tre felt satisfied wiht what had happened. Control of Lindim? She had alternative means of securing her goals.

Thunder's bridge rattled as she unleashed a full boradside from her nine 20in ETCs. The shells from them, each with a mass of more than 1,500 kilogrammes, took somewhat less than 10 seconds to reach the target barges that were sitting beyond the visual horizon, some 40 miles away. Via an RPV, Harwood watched as shell-splashes, colossal towers of furious water, hid the target from the eye. In the middle of them, two bright orange flashes and a lot of splintering steel signalled the end of the target barge. Then the telephone buzzed at him. He sighed and turned away from the silent show of destructive power on his monitor, listening to the speaker with mild interest that soon become far more serious.

When the converation had finished, he quickly raised the radio office. Some ten minutes afterwards, a lone Sovremennyy-class destroyer slipped her moorings and set off towadrs the distant Kagger.

**************************************************

The Su-33 was still watching. From time to time it dived through the grey blanket of cloud above the lonely destroyer and circled it, keeping friendly if still slightly cautious company. The pilot was being careful not to get too near to the far-off radar contacts behind the destroyer, wondering what they were but being profoundly unwilling to find out.

**************************************************

Meanwhile, in the northern islands, a little-used, narrow channel was being swept by a flotilla of minesweepers and frigates. At either end, a pair of fast missile boats paraded back and forth across the still water.

The commotion's cause was not readily apparent; however, when the channel bottomed out at a flat forty metres, the submarine had no choice but to surface. Her glistening black hull emerged from the water, with great streams of brine running from its rounded, threatening hull. The ovoid sail, atop its giant bulge, seemed like the fin of some gigantic sea monster, and indeed the whole ship had the suggestion of a kind of giant pliesiosaur with is long bow, tapering stern, high rudder and giant sail. The bridge windows seemed to glare at anyone who looked at the ship, the slits of narrowed and threatening eyes. However, the sail was not nearly so threatening as what lay within that great bulbous belly. Twenty-four tall, silent, green-painted missiles nestled snugly in their silos, awaiting only the command that would unleash them upon their unfortunate target. The crew, as though cowed by the beast under their control, looked with foreboding at them whenever they chanced to walk past. They had the sense to do so.

The Typhoon-II continued her uneventful journey, mingling with the fleet in its anchorages. Jones was no fool.

OOC: Just a note, the missile sub won't be going to sea or anything unless the situation escalates; it's generally viewed as sound policy to keep nuclear units on station near to the enemy nation of they have nuclear weapons.

OOC: But Lindim does not have nuclear weapons, based on principle and a weird and messy history. Oh, and I'll get some more roleplay up later today.

OOC: I thought you didn't. :P But all the same, if nothing else, it allows us the option of a dropshot.

~Definite Tag

OOC: I guess there are no negotiations, if you haven't read the other thread! Okay, here's mine own response. Also, we can assume, going by the other thread, several hours have passed.

IC: Commander Trael was tugging on his beard. It was unusual for Lindimese men under the age of sixty to have beards, but then, he was an unusual man. And besides, it provided something to do with his hands while he thought. " SO you say the friendly AWACS report a plane up there, and a missile submarine appeared out of nowhere? Omnious indeed..." His voice trailed off as he looked down at the sonar reads. They didn't report any other surprise subs and the radar didn't suggest any planes.

"Yes sir. However, we think the experimental missile sub that disappeared in this region a few days ago is still here."

Commander Trael looked up. Now it was interesting. "Really? Would it notice us?"

The captain nodded. "Even in quiet mode."

Commander Trael smiled grimly and sat back. "Hopefully they'll make contact with us, or help us if we need it. Until then, report back to me on any change of activity near the destroyer."

The officer saluted and left quickly. Trael took a sip of his coffee and went back to the radar reports before radioing in to the other cruisers. They had helicopters up and spotting, but the range of them was not at the level of the DPUO plane, or the Lindimese AWACS plane that flew steadily in a circle, a mile up.

"Christ Jesus! Nat wasn't kidding, she took a pasting!" breathed a officer aboard the lone destroyer as the Kagger swam slowly into view through the mist and drizzle. He trained the bridge wing binoculars on the destroyer, chewing his gum furiously - it was the one thing that substituted for his cigarettes - and gazing at the ship. "Mmm-mmm, looks like a dockyard job all right. Might even have to tow her."

"In this weather?" replied another officer. "You've got to be joking. If her engines die, we'll have to take off her crew and wait."

"Well, she's got this far on 'em. Maybe they'll hold up."

"Aye, maybe," replied his colleague, disbelief in his tone. "I don't think so though. Pity the poor sods who's spent two days on that thing."

"Yeah." The other officer paused, cocking his head. "'Ello, someone's giving them the ol' morse lamp."

"Eh?" the first officer strained to hear, and gradually picked up the familiar staccato clack of the ship's morse lamp. Such an anachronism; we always used to laugh at it being there. Guess it has some use after all. He too trained a pair of binoculars onto the mist-shrouded vessel, wondering for a moment if perhaps all the crew were dead after all, and he was staring at a ghost ship.

Beside him, the first officer transcribed the morse in his head: "This...DPUO...destroyer...do...you...need...assistanre." Assistanre?! He chuckled. Seems our morse man isn't so hot after all.

The destroyer's battered plating bore only a letter and three numbers: S-206. With her steam turbines barely above idle revolutions, she slowly and cautiously approached the Kagger, which was looking increasingly unhappy in the worsening swells.

OOC: Was the Lindimese destroyer doing Morse? Sorry, running on two days of no sleep and can't think straight.

OOC: Nope, but from Nat (the pilot of the previous post)'s description to the commanders they know the destroyer hasn't any real radio capability. They figure it's probably best to do morse code, since it's more proven at this sort of range.

Added: Check TGs.

OOC: I had a nice response all typed up, but the server ate it. Forget it, I'll redo it tomorrow, and sorry about that.

Gah! Stupid servers. Hence my habit of putting it into a temporary .txt document. BTW, I'm on AIM atm if you want to work this out.

OOC: Sorry for this short, bad post. My other post was better, but this should do for now. Still, I should have spent more time on it. Unfortunately, I'm a bit rushed right now. Later I'll edit it.

Lindimese cruiser group

"Trael, you seeing what I'm seeing? Helos report in flashes of light."

"Leaf and Sand, you work to the side of the group as ASW. Rear Guard, concentrate on AA defence. Blue Fish and Red will... take care of this Azazian destroyer."

Trael flicked off his radio and turned on the intercom. "This is Commander Trael, all personel to battle station," he said in a monotone voice before flicking it back off. Immediately, officers and enlisted men rushed into the command room, filling it up with shouts of radar and sonar.

"Sir, the destroyer is a clear shot and easily within range."

Trael nodded. Two cruisers against one destroyer would make it a one hit kill fight. They had to worry about what came after that. "This ship is going to launch ten Harpoons and move in at twenty-five knots, so we can get close enough to use our guns. The Red Fish will flank it form the other side and launch a salvo of ten cruise missiles. That should sink them, so we can worry about the Azazian cruisers."

L.S.S. Kagger

"FINE...FAEL REPLNISHED...TIL BAD WATHER"

Ges flicked the spot light on and off cautiously; he never had mastered the foreign "Morse code," and he was glad he took that college course on Western Navies. He finished up the message, and thougth he had done an okay of a job. Maybe everything wasn't so bad, he decided as he breathed in the chemical fumes mixed in the the salty air, maybe it would turn out for the best.

Suddenly he heard a familiarly haunting noise rise from behind him: the noise of a thousand angry bees, the noise of a missile's booster...

"Fuck!" he shouted as he ran back in, "Get this ship out of here! Thirty knots-" his words were cut off as the missiles screamed overhead.

"VAMPIRE!" The cry shattered the peace on the destroyer's bridge "Bearing three-five-one!"

"Light up the missiles!" The captain's bellow was far too late. The surface-to-surface missiles were already screaming along their course towards his lone destroyer. Only one was brought down by an SA-N-7 before the ship disappeared withing a maelstrom of smoke and flame.

Eagle One

"What the hell?" The surface picture had suddenly gone berserk. Many small dots had advanced southwards, and suddenly the ship marked "S-206", framed by a green box, had vanished from sight. The operators refused to believe what their eyes and the machines mockingly told them: the destroyer was gone.

"Sir, we've got something here!" The Senior Surface Tracking Officer stroked his stubble worriedly.

His superior's tired voice sounded from the other end of the cramped cabin. "What?"

"The destroyer sir. She's gone." The cabin, formerly full of dutiful chatter and general murmurings, fell silent.

"Oh, fuck."


Command ship Thunder, 10 minutes after the attack

Harwood's boots sounded heavy and ominous as they trammelled towards his command room. He shoved the door open angrily, and his voice resounded in the cramped, smoke-filled room.

"What the hell happened?!" he asked the question angrily, knowing that he would not like the answer.

"We don't know, sir." The Fleet Intelligence Liaison stood up and saluted crisply. "All we know is that the AWACS saw the destroyer being approached by numerous small high-speed objects that appeared to come from a group of ships some way behind this Lindimese one."

"What's all this appeared to come from there?" Harwood sneered, his blood boiling. "Where the hell else could they have come from!"

The Fleet Intel man didn't flinch. "A submarine, perhaps?"

"A submarine? You think a submarine would follow that lot all the way there, then launch that many cruise missiles at ONE ship without the risk of detection?" To emphasise his words, he cast a withering look at the man, who sat down, not wishing to argue the point further.

"All right, it looks like someone wants to play ball. Either that destroyer was one of theirs, luring ours in, our those cruisers were just following the destroyer and waiting for one of our ships to approach. I don't really give a damn which it was, I want those bastards dead!" Harwood's temper forced his voice up about five tones from his normal timbre, and it reverberated round the steel walls as though seeking escape from the sudden rage powering it. "Where's our nearest cruiser formation?"

"Here sir," replied an eager young officer immediately. She pointed to the wall-map. "Fifth cruiser squadron under the command of Commodore Krilenko. They're anchored among the outsermost island's bays to provide a quick intervention capability, sir." She smiled winningly.

Harwood remained unmoved. "How many and what kind?"

"Sir," continued the young woman, "this group has two of the new Boar class cruisers, plus three old Slavas and two Karas. They're also assigned a pair of Udaloy class ships to give a heavier ASW capability."

"Charles, get them moving and get them moving now. And organise an electronic-warfare patrol craft or two to listen to those people's transmissions." The officer he had addressed nodded and left the room. "The rest of you are dismissed. Bring all of your ships to 6 hours' readiness for sea." He strode back out through the steel doorway as the room began to empty.

************************************************

Heavy cruiser Kondor, Commodore Manfred Kurilenko commanding.
Berthed in Bay 15, Outer Islands Military Facility.

Manfred Krilenko read the order that had just come through on the radio in the peace of his cabin. The cruiser beneath him rolled only very slightly in the calm waters within the harbour. Outside, judging by the view from his scutle, the weather was not intent on clearing up any time soon, despite what the Met. boys said. He never trusted them anyway.

His young face wore an expression that could only be described as "ambivalent," changing as it was between sadness, anger and anxiety. He couldn't reconcile the three emotions, despite many years of trying. Now he just let them parade across his features, each making its mark in turn.

He was a mere thirty-six, and had only a few moments ago still been feeling only one thing: pride. He was, he knew, one of the youngest commodores in the Navy's history. His mother had phoned only thwo days before, telling him how proud she was and how she wished his father could have seen this. He had been embaressed, of course, as any man would be; but at the same time he had wished, quieytly, that it could have been. Alas, his father had already given all he could to his country, including his life; being an atheist, Krilenko had no delusions about the presence of an afterlife, and thus knew his long-dead father could not see his achievement.

Right now, he was still making sense of it all. No matter how favourably he tried to look at it - for he was a forgiving man - it appeared that the Lindimese had duped them. He shared the anger of all of the righteous men fooled by their deception, but at the same time, he was filled with the sadness that anyone would feel at having to kill his fellow-seamen. He could still recall a young cadet, like himself, asking him why he could not just kill. "Anatoliy," he had said paiently. "There are in all sea battles the heroes, the heroines and the villain. The heroes are the men. The heroines are the ships on which they fight. The only villain is the sea; the cruel sea, that man has made yet more cruel." He grunted with amusement as he remembered his friend's face.

With a sigh, he put his emotions aside, to be sifted and reflected upon later, and raised his telephone, pressing the polished white button for "Engine."

"Engineering," coughed a voice from the bowels of the ship.

"Captain speaking. bring engines to standby." He noticed the coolness in his voice.

"Aye sir." The phone clicked and he put it down, feeling like it was a lead weight, before donning his jacket and cap and proceeding to the bridge.

**************************************************

The bridge crew stood to attention when he entered. He gave them the "At ease" and moved towards the windows, then began to issue his orders.

"Captain, bring your ship to cruising stations. Signal the squadron to be ready for sea as quickly as possible and alert me when this is the case. We will proceed at best speed on course zero-one-one once the group is ready to proceed." The signalman rushed off, and the bells for cruising stations were sounding before he had finished speaking.

Now, we wait.

Lieutenant Ges stared at the last sinking remains of the destroyer that had offered help to them. No orange lifeboats surrounded it; only a bubbling, oppressive pit of water.

"Sir, what do we do?"

Lieutenant Ges spun on the captain with a look of horror on his face. "Run like a bleeding fish, of course! Get this ship working at thirty knots to wherever the Azazian helicopters had gone!"

The ensign scratched his head for a moment. "West?"

"Yes, now, go!" Ges shouted at the boy as he rubbed his head. There aren't supposed to be any Socialist ships out here, Sero was moving around to the north! Did he change his mind? "And ensign," Ges added, after a moment's decision, "See if we can't get that five inch gun up and running."

The ensign grinned and saluted before hurrying off, his green uniform hat bobbing up and down his his curly blonde hair. He's only a kid. The Sea Herself!

Ges decided he hated war.

OOC: Hello? This is a short, wake-up post.

Lindimese cruiser group

"You know all about the truce? Sero's surrendered?"

Trael snorted into his radio and gave a derisive laugh. "Do you think jthat these Socialist DontPissUsOffs are gonna give a shit about that? Increase group speed to twenty knots, but I want the ASW ships to stay at ten knots and keep looking."

Replies and confirmations came in before Trael clicked off and sighed. The destroyer had been easily taken care off, but AWACS had reported movement of seven cruisers, though they still weren't close to combat range.

*SCREAMS* F**KING SERVERS! I HATE THESE THINGS! I had a post ready and typed, and the bloody worthless bloody server bloody well ate it! DAMN THIS THING! I'll have a post up within an hour or so.

OOC: Yeah, same thing happened to me earlier.

Anyways, I'm going to start improving the level of detail, characters, and sheer quality of my RPs in this thread. With only two people, I shouldn't feel rushed. I'm going to start spending at least fourty-five minutes on each post, and editing all of my past posts in this thread.

I really can do better than this.

OOC: Meh, brevity can be the soul of wit. :D

Krilenko was alone, poring over his charts in his cabin. The heavy cruiser ploughed through the chop, digging her bows into the waves, angrily doing battle with her eternal enemy. When she struck a particularly big roller, the entire ship would shudder slightly, ringing like a bell with the impact of many tonnes of water. He knew that the gun crews were complaining bitterly about it; despite the heavy blast-bags over the triple 5.1in guns, the turret was still getting a little wet, and that made servicing the guns regularly necessary. Still, this ship's strength, he knew, was not in her guns but her missiles, nestling snugly, quietly in their cells astern, waiting for their time to come. He now had more of those than might otherwise have been the case, too. The Navy had had the sense to keep enough of the RPK-4 AShM variant of the SS-N-14 near his ships for him to re-arm quickly, giving him an extra 12 SSMs to use. It wasn't much, but it might make the difference. Of course, I now have a very weak ASW defence. He sighed. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

His chart was marked with his intended plan of action, plotted positions of enemy units, known weather patterns, and the positions of allied vessels. Red, blue, green and yellow lines were spread, spaghetti-like, over the paper, as though dropped from the plate of a careless child. His first priority was to deal with the enemy AWACS, but that was out of his jurisdiction. He had however requested a strike on it, so maybe it would be eliminated before long. He hoped it would; if he could gain an advatage in recconaissance he would be much happier. As it was, the AWACS could doubtless see them, mark off their every move. The good part of the AWACS' continual tracking was that his EW personnel had established much of its capabilities, and could thus jam it relatively easily. Still, he'd feel safer without it.

Krilenko's face seemed to tingle all over with tiredness, as if his muscles were shaking in an effort to keep themselves awake and alert. He would have to sleep sooner or later.

*************************

290 miles S.E. of the squadron

Twenty-four sleek shapes tore through the black, menacing skies above the equally black and menacing waters, spread out in six great delta shapes, each of four planes, flying on two separate vectors. The fighters were all of the same regiment, and their assigned task was the elimination of the Lindimese AWACS. They didn't expect it to be easy, for it had to be escorted, but they had their own advantages. To all appearances they were still old Su-33s, but in reality, they now carried the monstrous SBI-16K radar system and the R-37B1 AAM. The missile and radar went together beautifully, giving the fighters the abilitry to strike at ranges of nearly 200 miles from their opponents. It sure as hell beat the old F-14.

The Flanker pilots maintained their speed of Mach 1.4, kept their radios silent, and watched their RWRs tensely. Once the AWACS had locked them up, they would have but a few minutes to launch their missiles, turn away and run back to the air cover of the Fleet. Their Nav. computers now gave them a range of 245 miles to the target. In about 60 miles, or about 5 minutes, they would begin the most dangerous part of the mission, illuminating the AWACS and lobbing their AAMs. Most of them had never seen any action before; there was a decent probability that some of them would not see it again.

Captain Wezvun sat on the cheap plastic chair, sipping his black coffee and thinking about how much it sucked for him to have not seen any action during the civil war. His fighter squadron would have loved to kick some Socialist ass, but no, the fuckin' truce had to interfere. Ahh, well, I might as well go to-

Suddenly his black coffee was red and the silence was ringing with base's alarms flaring off. "AN AWACS HAS GOT FIGHTERS ON IT, FOREIGN!" someone called from outside the coffee machine room. "First Pelican Squadron is scrambling!"

Wezvun sent a prayer off to the Se for what She had done, cause he was going ot war! Already mostly dressed in his uniform, he ahd ran halfway to his bird before someone yelled at him to get a helmet. Man, what's wrong with you? he asked himself as he grabbed the helmet and ran back. He jumped up the stairs and slid into the cockpit of his EN-22, the plastic bubble above him sealing firm with teh rubber lining, leaving him alone with the glowing LEDs and analog dials. It was no high-tech stealth fighter, but it could kick ass all the same. Honey, I am home!

"Roger, Pelican Blue, you taxi out first."

Wezvun slwoly inched and turned his fighter one to yellow-striped runway, before increasing the fuel mixture and edging up the nose of his fighter. And soon, he was free of gravity, and was breathing oxygen from a tube, and was heading north to the AWACS.

"Shit, Blue, AWACS has disappeared off the screen in missile fire, we have the contacts up ahead, they're loud and proud at supersonic."

Wezvun confirmed this within his own radar. "Roger that, Green, arm AMRAAM's and put on afterburners. No need to be stealthy here." He earned a few chuckles with that.

The squadron of jets spread out in loose formation and sped into Mach 1.5, looking at the enemy jets for a few minutes. But then, the red dots of the hostile contacts began spreading out.

"This is Blue, giving you the order to space out and pull up into the blinding protection of our very own sun. Three minutes until contact."

3... They seemed to drag by, 2... "We've got reforming of their squadron..." 1...

Wezvun looked at his radar, the enemy seemed to be changing direction now... suddenly the targetting system held onto a jet and confirmed a lock. He just had to hold it. "Got a lock, firing Seahawks."

He flipped the firing switch and pulled off three missiles into his lock before cutting off the afterburners and pulling up sharply to prevent himself from being easy target.

All around him, he had confirmation, two missiles launched per plane except his, and they were pulling up fast and twisting around.

The Flankers had never been built for particularly high speeds, and had not been re-engined, despite the protestations of their pilots, for some time. The old Lyulka turbofans could still throw them beyond Mach 2, however, which was exactly what happened. The regiment closed back up, accelerating away from the onslaught of missiles.

"Wolverine leader here! All units execute Cobra in 5 seconds!" The regiment leader licked his lips nervously. What he was doing was either madness or brilliance, and he couldn't quite discern where one began and the other ended. The five seconds ticked by with awesome slowness. He watched his rear-facing radar track the incoming enemy missiles, still some way from his own aircraft, and counted down. Three little seconds. The radar switched through its frequencies and modes to combat the wall of jamming and chaff his own aircraft spewed behind them, managing to keep tracking most of the little dots. Two seconds left, and the missiles were still gaining, still eagerly gobbling up the precious air between him and they. One second. Now or never, do ir die, be the best. Stop thinking gibberish!

No seconds.

"Execute!"

As though in a wave, the front formations of Flankers climbed into near-vertical ascents. Adrenaline slowed their movements, and he watched the curious grace with which they suddenly flicked themselves in mid-air before him, wondering at the genius behind that manoeuvre. As the first Flankers returned to level flight, he counted at least six AAMs screech overhead, back towards their pursuers, whilst the next line commenced their Cobra. God bless Pugachev!

Now there was just the small problem of the enemy AAMs to worry about...

OOC: I take it you're familiar with Pugachev's Cobra.

*******************************************

Krilenko smiled as the EW officer's "aye sir" emerged from the interphone. So, the air force had done its job and blown that AWACS away. Well, they're good for something anyway. Now his job was somewhat easier. With a friendly AWACS just about able to keep an eye on things and much closer (and heavier) air cover than his opponents, he was for once in a good position for his attack on the cruisers. Even better, they weren't too far off, a mere 300 miles from him. He almost thought of calling up the Flanker pilots and asking them to illuminate the cruisers, so that his long-range missiles might be used as they were meant to be, but figured that he wanted to keep his face as it was. Nav had given them 12 hours until an interception. All he could do now was wait. That was always the worst part of the job: the waiting.

He crossed to the little wing of his cabin, a small balcony perched high above the decks below, and gazed out longingly towards the south, across the thundering ocean, wondering how long it would be before he saw the familiar sights of home again. The sight of the flag, fluttering brightly in the stiff wind, merely intensified his longing, and he let himself succumb to it awhile, a brief distraction of emotion to be enjoyed before the inevitable business of mechanised killing began.

OOC: Being the impatient fool I am, I'll skip on the waiting game and throw my cruisers forward, even though they'll lose as a result. Post up later.

Two angels or so up.

Wezvun grinned as he saw the Western aerobatic trick executed flawlessly; it just meant the enemies eventual defeat would be so much more fun.

"We've got six AAM on us!"

Wezvun nodded and confirmed this in his HUD. Purgachev's little hop his ass. He'd show them what it meant to fight in the Pacific. "Down and right! Follow my lead!" He twisted his plane sideways and up until he was pulling more Gs than what was healthy, upside down to teh ground. Then he suddenly flipped down the elevators and twisted the stick to the right. His bird suddenly seemed to freeze in the air, before dropping straight down like a brick and righting itself up. He leveled out at a much lower altitude and pulled off two Firestarter missiles, flicking the red button lightly.

The rest of his squadron, both rows of men followed him in a gently coiled line, until-

"Shit, I can't shake the-"

"Pelican Blue, they've got a kill on us, and Drag's leaking serious fuel with an engine damaged! He's going to have to get out!"

"Afterburners and pull up!"

OOC: That little trick my pilots pulled has no name, but it was discovered by an American pilot who's test plane was going out of control. I'll let you RP your own

High-altitude flight

The pilot of the ELS-4 stealth strike plane quietly adjusted his controls as his navigator said.

"AWACS at five minute contact."

"In missile range?"

"One minute."

The minute passed slowly by, too far up in the atmosphere for most airplane radars to reach, and just enough angles and composites to hide them from the AWACS. At subsonic speed, their emissions were easily cooled to lower temperatures, so low it was be almost impossible to detect.

They flew on, beneath an empty space.

OOC: You can RP your AWACS destruction or lack thereof.

L.S.S. Bluefish

Trael groaned and put his head in his hands, staring down at the maps as the news was delivered. "They destroyed AWACS?"

The radar captain nodded. "Yes sir, but we've got a stealth on theirs."

Trael looked up. "How long?"

"Uh, about a minute or so, sir."

Trael nodded. "Cut off all speed, and I want a second group of Sea Strikers out there. If we can get just a few cruisers out, we should have the upper hand."

"Yes, sir."

"Two more coming in! More of the bastards, below and to our starboard."

"Maintain speed and dive. Keep the bastards chasing us!" The 24 Flankers pulled into swift dives towards the surface, while the missiles pursued.

"Range to our ships?"

"About 140." The regiment leader was concerned. "Radar's got a new regiment heading up." He knew he couldn't do anything about the AAMs, except attempt to outrun them or evade them. Well, that was all right. His rear radar counted four of them still locked on his formation, and the datalink gave him five on the other, closing slowly from astern, overhauling his planes. Soon, of course, they'd have to slow down. But as a missile fell away, hope sprang that they might make it yet.

Gull Regiment

Twenty-four more Su-33s climbed swiftly to 26,000 metres, aiming to stay as high as possible above the enemy aircraft, their radars disengaged. While the fighters were busy chasing the retreating Flankers, they were already passing above and behind them, cutting through the deep, fluffy clouds and emerging above them, into streaming sunlight and clear blue.

AWACS Eagle One

One of the R/Os was puzzled. He twiddled some knobs carefully, adjusting the radar image's resolution, but it didn't help. The odd contact was still there. It was incredibly faint, and the AWACS refused point-blank to lock on to it; given the weather, he would normally have dismissed it as a cloud formation or similar natural occurrence. As it was, he called for his superior.

"Sir?"

"What?"

"Look at this." The R/O pointed at the contact, a faint, barely-visible smudge in the electronically empty sky. "Keeps coming and going, and the radar won't lock it down. Request beam-sharpen permission?"

His superior considered. "Mmm. Yes. Can't be too careful."

"Very well, sir." The radar temporarily focussed all the energy of its beam straight at the last know position of the contact, covering a mere 15 degrees per sweep. The contact came back stronger, almost enough to lock onto. The operator began to sweat.

"Sir, request permission to vector a fighter. Contact is positive, is not malfunction or natural feature."

"Request granted. Don't keep him long, we might need him." Without a word, the R/O called up not one but two Su-33s and gave them a vector towards the target, telling them that it might be a stealthy aircraft. The pilots powered their massive radars up, kept them on standby, ready to illuminate the target - if target it turned out to be.

Gull regiment

"Gull one to all, level off and follow my lead. Two squadron, keep your radars killed and advance. One squadron, power up on my mark."

The AWACS

The faint contact was being closed up rapidly by two larger, more definite points. If it were a stealth plane, it could be doing anything, and they were taking no chances; the An-71M was turning quickly and diving towards the ocean. They could do without AWACS cover for the moment.

The radar picked up the twin, hard points of the missiles almost immediately after their launch, flashed and made as much noise as possible to warn the crew. The big plane began throwing out a solid cloud of chaff from a tail aperture, firing off flares and smoke-generating decoys behind them to try and confused LADAR and IRST units. One of the missiles ploughed into the cloud of chaff, found a flare and exploded with an expanding roar, but the other homed cleanly onto the jet's starboard engine, blazing into it and exploding. The engine flamed out, destroyed itself with its own turbine, and finally exploded, setting off the two wing fuel tanks and in any case snapping off one wing.

OOC: BTW, I developed a few ounters to stealthy aircraft (improved detection algorithms, more powerful radars with superior beam control), but whatever. 'Bout time I fitted my AWACS up with LADAR and whatnot anyway.

Gull regiment

Two squadron was now well ahead of One, by some 100 miles, almost over the Lindimese fighters' heads, and ready.

"One squadron, illuminate in five. Four. Three. Two. One. Illuminate!"

Twelve SBI-16 radars snapped on, datalinked into three groups of four, ooverlapping one another and scanning for 180 miles in front of them, making the air dance with energy. They found twelve targets, and began locking them up. All the while, Two squadron was passing overhead.

OOC: I'm assuming these fighters aren't particularly stealthy; SBI-16's a pretty incredible radar system, and I just imprived it a bit (like with the AWACS).

The Kondor

"Air battle going on," commented an officer, not looking up as Krilenko entered the bridge.

"So I gathered. Bit confused up there, apparently. Nothing much we can do, however."

"True, sir." The First Officer handed him a few bits of paper. "Latest reports on enemy positions, sir. The AWACS bought it, but there are a pair of fighters after him."

Krilenko studied the file briefly. "Advance speed to twenty-one knots. Pass the order to other ships of the group."

"Aye sir."

Berserker regiment (the original group)

Three aircraft down. One eighth of his forces gone, thanks to those damned missiles! The regiment leader was not pleased. He watched his datalink display intently, observing with some glee the 12 aircraft in front of him power up their radars, no doubt to the consternation of their targets.

"Berserker lead, turn one eight zero and engage enemy aircraft," buzzed the radio.

What?! "Repeat that last!" he growled.

"Berserker lead, turn one eight zero degrees and engage enemy aircraft. Recommend you delay engagement until enemy aircraft are under fire from Gull group."

He pounded his fist on an unimportant area of the instrument panel. You murderous bastards! Restraining his rage, he snapped the mike switch. "Roger that."

OOC: Yeah, what with all of the "SUPER STEALTH" out there today, I am doing an overhaul of my AWACS and recon planes, adding better radar analysis and LADAR.

*sighs wistfully* These crazy modern times. Nice post, by the way. You are well-versed in modern naval theory.

OOC: Ah yes, theory. Sounds threatening, especially when italicised. :P

OOC: Well, in case Freethinkers was reading... ;) Sorry about the short post, needed to finish school essay.

L.S.S. Blue Fish

"Sir, we have CBDR from the south at us, twenty-five knots. It's the entire cruiser group!"

Trael jumped out his chair, knocking it over, and look harshly at the XO. "What?" Are they crazy? Our guns out number theirs! If they get too close, we'll wipe them!"

The XO just raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Trael sighed and nodded. "Increase group speed to thirty knots, bearing directly on these ships. We'll met them head on." The XO saluted sharply and walked out the door as Trael called out after him. "And let me know when we are within range for the guns! Any missile attacks, just throw them off and keep going. We need that gun range!"

Pelican Blue

Wezvun was pissed. Two groups were on him, and he had no back up yet. "Fuck!" he shouted when the radar displayed an array of AAMs across the sky, and fighters approaching their tails. "Coil up, I repeat coil up!"

The entire group of EN-22s pulled up sharply and spun upwards in a loose formation of spinning fighters. Then they snapped the noses back down to level flight and fell down again, all in a conert to dodge thr AAMs.

Two of the planes were hit and dissolved in a chaotic mess up fire and metal.

"Bitch, we've got to- wait, hold that! We've got a friendly group! Yes, a second group of friendly fighters coming up above the second enemy group! They're engaging AAMss!"

Gull Twelve's RWR bleeped urgently as fire-control radars scanned their aircraft. Automatically, the pilot powered up his jammers, and the radar status changed from the threatening red "lock" light to a more uncertain orange as the enemy grappled with the jammers. His Hoffman indicator gave him and azimuth, and he switched his radar onto it, ordering the rest of the squadron to do likewise. If they wanted a head-on battle with Mach 5 missiles, they'd get it.

Berserker regiment

The regiment peeled into two groups of nine, spun back over themselves and ran back towards the Lindimese fighters, their radars cycling and hopping frequencies as fast as possible to dodge any jamming in the area. More radars converged on the pursuing aircraft, until within a minute there were more than thirty aircraft engaging a depleted enemy squadron. Another volley of 20 R-37B1s spattered out from the Flankers, backed by a cloud of protective jamming.

OOC Note: R-37B1 is an evolution of R-37, given LADAR and active radar, plus a datalink to the launching aircraft. Newer models can be guided by any friendly plane in the area. It flies at about Mach 5 and is pretty agile, but not an ideal dogfight missile. The aircraft will lob them until they're gone, then switch to smaller R-77M missiles.

The Kondor

"Sir, latest reports indicate enemy accelerating to match our course and speed."

"Very well. Keep it moving, and let me know when we're mithing gun range. I want to give them a triple surprise."

"Aye sir."

Krilenko knew what the enemy cruisers carried: guns, and lots of them, along with a good air-defence system, based on the old American Aegis. That might be problematic, but somehow he doubted it. His ETCs gave his ships ranges of more than 100Km with their guns, and the 300 Yakhont missiles sitting snugly within the two commanding cruisers alone was a formidable enough force, for five ships. And of course, there were the other aspects to consider... he suddenly had a thought.

"Captain, get off a pair of UAVs immediately, and keep them shadowing the enemy cruiser group at range. Give them jamming pods, too."

"Aye sir."

L.S.S. Bluefish

Commander Trael was relaxed, calm. With both ships relatively blind without AWACS, he had the gun advantage and the overall upper hand. And he would get his eyes back too... "Captain!" he snaped to the aviation officer.

The captain snapped to attention. "Sir?"

Trael nodded; his men were disciplined and ready. They would win. "Get two Longspears out there, on recon and EW. Keep them flying low and tailing those cruisers."

The captain saluted and exited quickly, calling out to his subordinates. Trael tapped his fingers and sighed. They still had some time to go.

OOC: Longspears are essentially standard UAVs with minimal stealth features and probably the same thing as yours, if a it narrower and longer. Hence the name.

Up in the air

OOC: Gull Twelve is not Beserker, right? So I can jam them? And why am I losing?

The fighters lost their locks and were twisting in to get them again, but suddenly warning red lights flared up all over their cockpits. They flipped their jamming on and changed thier radar mode to cycle/random, pulling up quickly before spinning around and go back down, straight at their opponents. Locked or not, five of the aircraft got off two heat-seaking Bonfire missiles.

Over in the other group, the dying squadron was pissed. Here they had came, outnumbered, and their enemies were just playing with them. Fuck it, they would show them who the hell they were messing with.

Wezvun called out for low altitude dodge, and the entire squadron switched on their afterburners and shot down to the ground as the missiles approached. Then, approaching the sea, below, they immediately spun out in every direction and reformed as a squadron pointing back up at their pursuers, the missiles them streaming off into the distance.

"Cycle/random mode, and if you've got a lock, fire!" Wezvun shouted. The squadron pulled off 25 total Bonfires, angled right up at their ex-pursuers.

OOC: Bonfires are the standard heat-seakers but with anti-decoy measures and a slightly better agility for lesser speed.

L.S.S. Bluefish

Enisgn Bolin punched in the code into the switchboard as the missile tubes locked the AAMs in place. Quite a few of the missile tubes were filled with long-range AAMs now, and it seemed Commander Trael wasn't planning on letting the enemies missiles get the advantage of radar. Clever man, that Trael, Bolin thought before signing off the replacements in the log.

OOC: There, take that! I'm prepared, are you? :D

OOC: Dedicated SAM launchers, f00l. :P Right, I think I'm roughly aware of what's going on...*looks at mental map*.

IC: The Kondor

Krilenko examined the view from the UAV closely. Not too bad. At least they still had the advantage of numbers, if not of gunnery. Still, those things could shoot awfully quickly. He glanced outside at the heavy, angular triple turret, turning casually through its arc, and smiled a little. Might be enough.

"All right, order the UAVs back. Missile control, you got what you need?"

"Yes sir."

"UAVs returning sir."

He paced the bridge. The two groups were about 100 miles apart now, covering ground at a mutual closing speed of about sixty. He could afford to wait a little.

Berserker regiment

They're good, I'll give them that. But good enough? Nah. The colonel pulled his fighter into a vertical dive, blasting towards the floor as his comrades followed the move, while Gull One kept him updated on the position of the Bonfires. So you want low-level battle? Have some!

Gull One

Why am I sitting here watching missiles coming towards me? asked the regiment leader. His radar showed them as little dots, many of them, streaming upwards and outwards, approaching at more than twice the speed of sound, and yet he was just...watching them?

"Gull one, this is Berserker lead, thankyou for your time. Suggest you get off, over."

"Roger that!" He sighed with relief, then transmitted a scatter order and corkscrewed his plane towards the floor.

Gull Twelve

The missiles were coming up vertically; there was nowhere to go but horizontally. The Flankers split apart, rushing away at Mach 2 and dropping flares behind them. The IR guided missiles found themselves ascending among a sea of hot targets. Six obliterated flares, and one somehow became confused and chased off after the high sun. That left ten missiles going for twelve aircraft. Three disintegrated under multiple impacts, and two more limped homeward, trailing gouting black smoke.

"Two squadron, hammer them!"

The Flankers turned around, heading back towards the launching aircraft, and accelerate towards them, pointing almost directly downwards, dropping off flares and chaff as they did so, their radars still burning away. It was pretty much suicidal, but that wasn't important. Another volley of missiles, this time shorter-ranged and more agile R-77s, and the Flankers barrel-rolled, popped their brakes and spun away in a widening cone.

OOC: This is confusing, I think. Basically, there's still a squadron up top (evading the missiles; I didn't mention losses but will do next post), and now there's about 20 aircraft flying a little way (about 700 feet) above your low-flying squadron, and another dropping straight at them. The ships meanwhile are just heading straight at one another.

OOC: It is getting confusing, but I think this is a good example of what leads to a naval battle. AWACS out, fighters engaged, UAVs recon, cruisers metaphorically calling each other out.

OOC: I'll post the beginning of the naval battles while you RP your losses in the air. Also, though you are winning the air war, I'm going to win the naval war. :p Look down below for Trael's strategy.

L.S.S. Bluefish

"Sir!" The ensign shouted unnecessarily as he ran, rather disresectfully, up to Commander Trael, who was studying maps with the XO in the command room.

Trael looked up at the panting officer and raised his eyebrows, but did not comment on the rudeness. "Yes, Captain?"

"Sir, we can confirm seven cruisers, lightly armed. Well, compared to us. The UAVs are back."

Trael nodded and looked at his XO. Smaller guns, higher rate of fire, more missiles, almost within missile range. But Aegis would deal with that. "Go sound the alarm and call out for all battle stations ready, and spread the word to the rest of the," he said the XO briskly, standing up and ignoring the map for now. Planning time was over. Turning to the aviation captain, he said, "Nice work, but it's not over. I want two helos from this ship up and target spotting, low and out of missile range. And another helo from the Red Fish." He dismissed the captain and turned back to his XO. "Ready the guns, and I want my little surprise ready. If it works out, the rest of the battle will be ours."

Electronic Warfare Officer Second Lieutenant Jersi excitedly ran to the deck of the ship, eager to see the launch. All five cruisers in the group had gone to ASW mode, except for a single one in back who monitored the air war above. Jersi stood on the deck, with a few other curious officers, waiting for-

WHOOMPH! Jersi nearly fell to her feet just as the suddenness of it. All around her, she could see even on the other cruisers, anti-ship missiles roared out of the VLS cells, racing out over the sea. Smoke covered the view, but Jersi could see their flames disappear out to sea, like a Harpoon missile. The usual.

Except they weren't; they were ARMs set to detonate before hitting the ship and utterly steal away the opponents radar ability. Without radar, enemy missiles would have no fire control and the enemy wouldn't be able to see their missile launches. So this is Trael's clever strategy. It might just be a quick battle after all.

Then, as Jersi turned around to go back inside, another roar made her jump and she spun around to see cruise missiles race out of the ship, trailing behind the ARMs. It's gonna suck to be on those ships, Jersi mused happily.

OOC: This scene is repeated on the four other ships, so guess about 15 ARMs launched per ship, 75 total, and around 100 cruisers total. I don't like the idea of lobbing giant volleys of missiles around but c'mon, this strategy just popped into my mind and was too good to give up. :) Besides, the large volley is because Trael wants to end this quickly.

OOC: *gasp!* I replied the same day you did? Miracle of miracles!

OOC: Nice try. But you'll find I'm full of surprises. *Smokes threateningly* :P

The Kondor

"Captain, air-search radar plots incoming contacts, bows-on.

"Very well. Sound air warning stations." Krilenko took a deep breath. Time to go to work. "Pass the word to all ships: engage with missile fire only when within 15 clicks." He turned next to the surface warfare officer. "Are they ready?"

"They're ready."

"Very well. Order them to launch low and slow."

"Aye sir."

From the rearmost ships of the group, a salve of ageing, obsolescent SS-N-14 missiles screamed outwards, heading on a low-flying trajectory towards the enemy ships - or so it appeared. In fact, thanks to their command guidance, the N-14s were acting as giant SAMs, each filled with a 200 kilogramme HE warhead, and enough fuel and parts to convert them into giant fragmentation bombs. The ships' radars and LADARs were tied directly into their control modules, and could programme the tired old weapons to detonate right where they were needed - in the middle of the close-grouped bundle of missiles. Behind them, the rest of the SSMs waited patiently, biding their time until the enemy would feel their wrath.

"Air officer, keep those two UAVs in range to give us direction warnings on those things. What did your EW get by the way?" Krileko was strangely calm for a man who had a hundred large, explosive-tipped things moving towards him.

"Enough. We know roughly what they're capable of, and that might give us the advantage. Shall I have the remaining ones load jammers, sir?"

Krilenko thought. "Yes, do that. And get the groups helos up with jammers and AAMs - we might catch a few of the slower ones."

"Aye sir."

OOC1: Just so ya know, at the moment my ships are yours are pretty much bows-on to one another. However, mine will turn sideways shortly.

OOC2: I assume these ARMs are designed to home right onto the antenna and then shred it with their explosion.

IC: Kondor's systems watched the missiles approach, and watched the sixteen large, slow, fat objects head out slowly to meet them, as though it were some sort of obscure mating ritual, destined to produce an explosion. They were surprisingly slow weapons, but their slow speed was compensated for by being relative stealthy. Many crewmen wondered just how useful that stealth might be.

The first N-14 approached within 10 thousand metres of its target, both of them heading towards inevitable destruction, a mutual death-race that nobody could win. Still they closed. The missile seemed almost eager to meet with them now, approaching a little faster, now slower as the computers precisely regulated its course.

"Captain, there's something odd here."

"What's that?" Krilenko glanced at the EW officer, then back to the plot.

"The computers say that at least 50 of those missiles are emitting no detectable radar or other electronic emissions. In fact, they're homing on us, most likely."

"Radar-homers?" Krilenko frowned. "Bit predictable, don't you think?"

"Could be, sir. The sensors pick up nothing, including no laser emissions. Unless they're being command guided, I'd say odds are they're after us."

"All right." He turned to the Air Defence Officer as the EWO went back to his consoles. "SAM officer, light up the LADARs and set a volley up for non-emission homing. Make sure they're large warhead models."

OOC again: I figure that in a large group of missiles, you can set up a seeker that homes in on anything not emitting anything; it won't be too accurate, but given guidance help (such as its own radar or in this case the ship's radars and LADARs) it should be able to do the job.

IC: The first N-14 vanished into the swarm of missiles; for a moment, everyone held their breaths, wondering if it had failed.

Then, like a birth-scream, a long, dull boom echoed out across the water, accompanied on the horizon by a cloud of black smoke and a huge, fiery explosion. Radar plots suddenyl showed nothing more than a cloud of fragments where once there had been SSMs. Cheering went up thoughout the ships - but there were still more than a hundred to go.

Meanwhile, the first salvo of 20 S-400Ks rocketed from their rotary launchers and headed downrange, guided by the computers' agile brains towards those few missiles not tracking the formation by themselves. Aboard the launching cruisers, cruise missiles' computers' began to hum with activity as they were fed launch and target orders.

OOC: Wait, if our ships were spread out, why are the missiles bunched together? I mean, I wasn't targetting one ships, was I? The closest five ships, the first ones, right? *is confused*

OOC: Right, here we go. I'm assuming you're OK with me doing your losses, since we want to get the air battle finished and get on with the main event. Still online if there are any probs.

IC: Gull One

"Got the fucker!" The colonel watched as at least four little green dots disappeared from his radar display. The other points scattered, regrouped for another attack, periodically foiling his radar's attempts to stay one step ahead of their countermeasures and dissolving it in a sea of green fuzz that hurt his eyes when he glared at it. He was winning, now, and he knew it. Toggling his radio, he let loose a bellowed whoop of delight. "Get them, boys!"

Gull Twelve

Gull 12 had survived, barely. The squadron was down to seven aircraft, and the leader's own plane was banging angrily as loose metal flapped in the slipstream, the result of a Bonfire missile attempting to get to know it better. The plane’s controls felt sluggish as he checked them yet again, the rider of a wounded animal that knew its life was limited. The squadron had extracted its own cost, though, and he knew it. At least two more of those hated points had disappeared from the monitors. The colonel hated those little radar returns, hated their pilots with a fiery passion, for they had killed his men, his friends, his countrymen; and now that they were doomed to certain death, he would be happy to provide that death to them.

Wezvun’s fighter

Wezvun realised that his position was untenable as three, now four of his planes vanished in cloud of black smoke, blossoming outwards with their deep red cores flaring, mockingly, in his vision. He just didn’t have the firepower to stop more than double his number of aircraft, and now his brain began to generate fantasies. What if there were more coming, rising upwards to meet him and take him to the grave in a burning, flying, falling coffin, or to drown in the icy ocean below? His mind visualised them, a monstrous image of wave upon wave of gnat-like blue machines clawing towards him, determined to swallow him up in their buzzing mass, and him unable to stop them…

“Turn about! All of my fighters, retreat, get back to the carriers! There’s too many of them!”

“Sir, we can’t retreat now!” protested the voice of a young pilot.

“WRONG! Retreat, NOW!” he screamed, his face reddening. “If you want to die, that’s fine, but I don’t, and I’m ordering you to goddamn’ retreat!” Even as he finished, another aircraft vaporised nearby, sending fragments pinging against his jet while he hauled it through a 9g turn to the north. Reluctance was quickly displaced by fear in his two companions when the fourth fighter exploded into fragments, and they followed his lead, falling back towards the protection of the carriers and away from the enraged Flankers amid the gathering storm-clouds.

Berserker regiment

The colonel proclaimed, “they’re on the run, by God!” and advanced his throttles, checking his fuel status and noting with alarm that he was approaching the point of no return. “Berserker regiment, close up and engage the enemy with all you have.”

“Colonel, I’m clean,” reported a despondent pilot. “Only cannon left, sir.”

“Well then, chase them!” responded the colonel impatiently, his eyes flashing at his unseen, unenthusiastic comrade.

“I’m almost at critical fuel, sir!” the other pilot complained.

“I don’t care! Chase them as long as you have a drop in your tanks, and if you have to ditch, so be it!” Furious, he switched off the radio and concentrated on his own radar display and HUD, watching as his Su-33 slowly closed the distance between him and his quarry; he was only distracted by the shrill “BEEEEEP!” or his RWR. And then, through the fog of anger and triumph, he remembered the other squadron…

Gull One

Gull one still had a panoramic view of the battle. He felt nothing more than circumspect, professional satisfaction as he watched the remaining three planes of his foe flee to the north, before turning his attention back to the other squadron, which now hung, uncertainly, in his radar display, as though unsure of what to do. Surely they aren’t going to make a fight of it, with something like thirty aircraft opposite them? he wondered. They danced on the green screen, occasionally illuminating his fighter, and then, as though finally deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, fired one last group of missiles and departed behind a wall of jamming and chaff.

For his part, Gull One ordered the remains of his regiment to close up, and kept an eye on his fuel gauges. They would patrol awhile, but there was no need to stay here; the battle was already won, and he was sure that none of his pilots had the slightest wish to get within SAM range of the cruisers far below.

Berserker One

The colonel died a death of which his father would merely have said, “young fool.” The pair of AAMs that slammed into his Su-33 smashed it apart before he even had time to think of any defiant last words, let alone yell them out above the noise of his aircraft’s engines. He was not to know that his own aircraft’s last pair of missiles were to destroy another aircraft of the enemy, nor the gold star with which he was to be presented; but he was to know that he had at least died a soldier’s death, and finally lived up to the ideal of making the ultimate sacrifice. And miles to the south, the crew of the lone fleet carrier that steamed in lonely, pathetic circles listened to the radio reports, counted the missing, and made preparations for the wounded. The captain, sitting at his office desk, wrote out the letters to the parents of those confirmed to be lost, aware for the first time of the sheer futility of all that men did, and wondered why.

OOC: Nice. But for this, I'm going to make three of my cruisers survive, just for the fact that you killed my planes. :p I'll get the naval post up later today.

Hey, I did lose a character I'd hope to keep, even if he was a prat. Anyway doing that'd louse it all up :P damn you!

OOC: Wezvun crashed on the way home. You happy? At least you wrote your character a nice death. I've given characters worse. :D

OOC: I rather hoped he'd live....bring him back!! :P Seriously though, I can edit that if ya want.

OOC: Nah, I'll address it tonight.

Bump for Lindim.