November 18 – 0800 Hours
Emilie stood at rigid attention inside the adjacent base commander's office. The overhead fluorescents cast a sterile white glare across the room, but the desert morning light still filtered through the half-closed blinds, painting stripes of heat across the floor tiles. The air smelled faintly of paper, dust, and stale coffee—typical of a command office that never slept.
Her posture was perfect, but the tension was there—in her clenched jaw, the faint crease between her brows. Her helmet sat under her arm, fingers tight around it.
Commander Maksim leaned back slightly in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He regarded her with a tired but steady gaze, hands steepled together just beneath his chin. The faint hum of the air-conditioning unit filled the silence before he finally spoke.
"Thanks for coming, Emilie." His tone was calm, though heavy. "I just need a statement from the flight lead about what happened with Captain Megistus."
He shifted forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Tell me—how did Megistus get shot down?"
Emilie's shoulders rose and fell in a controlled breath through her nose, the anger simmering just under the surface. Her voice, when it came, was flat but sharp-edged.
"We had finished wiping out every enemy air target assigned. Sky was clear. From there, Wolfsbane was tasked with top cover for Sea Monster One, Two, and Three during their extraction."
She let the words hang for a moment, her eyes narrowing as if replaying every second in her mind.
"As we circled the camp, Megistus suddenly broke formation. No radio call. No warning. Nothing. I'd given her explicit instructions before we even hit the AO: once the helicopters touched down, stay in formation, maintain altitude, do not deviate, and don't pull any goddamn stunts around a hot LZ."
Her fists clenched at her sides, the leather of her gloves creaking.
"Despite those orders, she peeled off. Went low. Went slow. Right over the camp." Emilie's lip curled faintly in frustration. "Exposed herself. Made herself a fucking target. That's when a hidden SAM site lit her up."
Maksim frowned, leaning forward. "Did the SAM show up on IFF or early warning systems?"
Emilie shook her head firmly. "Negative, sir. Cold as stone. Completely masked—no radar signature, no emissions. Pure optical ambush. One of the Sea Monster helos managed to visually spot it after it fired, engaged with cannon and Hellfires, destroyed the launcher. But it was already too late. Missile was airborne. Megistus was hit."
The silence that followed was punctuated only by the low hum of the HVAC. Maksim exhaled, dragging a hand down his face, and let his gaze drift briefly toward the window.
"Right," he muttered at last, the word heavy. "That's it for now. Thank you, Captain."
Emilie's reply was a short, stiff nod. She pivoted sharply on her heel, boots striking the tiled floor with a crisp rhythm as she left the office. Each step was clipped, carrying that undercurrent of barely contained anger.
The hallway outside was dimmer, cooler, lined with maps and faded photographs of past operations. Emilie crossed it quickly, entered the briefing room, and dropped heavily into a chair beside Ayaka. She sat with her arms crossed, helmet on the table in front of her, scowl etched deep into her features.
Ayaka leaned slightly toward her, voice low. "You don't seem pleased, Emilie."
Emilie snapped her eyes to her, the look sharp enough to cut. "No shit, Sherlock."
Ayaka went quiet, lips pressing into a thin line.
At the front of the room, Base Commander Courbervie stepped into place. He dimmed the lights with a flick of the wall switch and activated the main display. The screen hummed to life, a tactical map of the Deshret Desert flickering up—its terrain outlined in dull brown and gold, scattered with faint blinking red markers. Courbervie stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, his shadow stretching across the screen.
"Alright," he began, voice firm. "Let's get started."
He tapped a series of keys. The map zoomed in, expanding to show grids, coordinates, and enemy notations.
"We've successfully picked up Captain Mona Megistus's distress beacon." The red pulsing icon glowed faintly on the map's edge. "With that, we are greenlit to launch a search and rescue operation."
He gestured to several markers plotted near the beacon.
"Ground units report clear skies across Deshret. Visibility excellent. Conditions ideal. However, intelligence indicates that Captain Megistus, along with the surviving crew of Sea Monster Three and a number of freed POWs, are on the run. Enemy ground units are in pursuit."
The display shifted again, red arrows showing advancing patrol routes.
"She's still transmitting her beacon," Courbervie continued, "but the signal is weak—real weak. We can't get an exact fix. That job falls to you."
He turned his head, locking eyes on Emilie like a drill instructor pinning down a recruit.
"Captain Emilie—your Tomcat is fitted with a rescue homing receiver slaved to the emergency locator beacon frequency. That's your lifeline. Once you acquire a solid fix, relay the coordinates to Sea Monster One immediately."
His voice hardened, every word like iron.
"Expect hostile ground fire. Expect hostile air threats. Your primary mission is not to rack up kills. It's to bring Megistus home alive."
He paused deliberately, letting the weight of his words fill the room.
"You will escort the rescue helicopters out of Deshret airspace once they've recovered her and the others. Do not deviate. And don't make me write a posthumous two-rank promotion."
The words landed like a hammer.
Emilie rose from her chair, snatched her helmet off the table, and stormed out without a word.
"C-Captain! Hey—wait up!" Teppei blurted, scrambling to his feet.
At the doorway, Emilie stopped just long enough to glance over her shoulder. Her voice was sharp as a blade.
"You done gawking at the Commander? Or are we actually here to execute a goddamn rescue op?"
Teppei froze, then stammered, "O-Of course! Just—hang on a sec—"
Emilie scoffed. "Then don't keep me waiting."
Without another word, she disappeared down the hall, her boots pounding toward the flight line.
Behind them, Courbervie folded his arms, expression unreadable. He muttered under his breath, just loud enough to carry in the tense silence:
"I wouldn't keep your flight lead waiting, fellas."
Teppei and Ayaka exchanged a nervous glance, then grabbed their helmets in unison and jogged after Emilie.
Outside, the sun hammered down mercilessly on Petrichor's tarmac. Heat shimmered upward in violent waves, distorting the air and painting the apron in a haze. The reek of jet fuel hung thick, mixing with the faint tang of scorched asphalt.
Emilie marched across the concrete with a rigid stride, her gaze locked ahead. The F-14A that awaited her gleamed under the glare — a massive shape crouched low and menacing, like a steel predator barely restrained. Ground crews swarmed the fighter, tugging at hydraulic lines, checking panels, securing pylons. She hardly gave them more than a glance.
Her boots struck hard against the sun-baked pavement as Teppei and Ayaka caught up.
Ayaka's voice broke the silence first, soft but edged with concern. She reached out, fingers brushing Emilie's shoulder.
"Captain… are you okay?"
Emilie blinked once, her face unreadable under the heat mirage. "Oh, I'm fine."
Teppei frowned. "That tone doesn't sound like you're 'fine'…"
Emilie's lips twisted into a grin — not warm, but sharp, cutting. "Oh yeah. I'll be fine… once I speak with our dearest Captain Mona Megistus. When we haul her ass out of there."
Teppei's eyes widened, almost tripping over his words. "C-Captain?!"
Emilie smirked wider, almost wolfish. "Don't worry. I'll be easy on her. After a lecture on keeping her goddamn ass glued to my fucking tail where it belongs."
Without another word, she broke away, boots crunching against the tarmac as she approached her Tomcat.
The ladder seared hot under her gloves as she climbed. She pulled herself into the cockpit with practiced ease, sliding into the seat like she'd been molded to it. Straps crossed over her torso, clicking into place with a metallic finality. Her helmet rested on her lap for one brief moment before she pulled it on, the padding sealing her in. The oxygen mask came next, snug against her face, her breaths echoing hollow in her own ears.
With a hydraulic hiss, the canopy descended. It locked shut with a heavy metallic clunk, sealing her in the dim green glow of the instruments. The roar of the flight line dulled, replaced by the muted thrum of her war machine's heartbeat.
She raised a hand, signaling.
The crew chief flashed a thumbs-up, ducked under the fuselage, and disconnected the power and bleed-air lines. He darted clear, giving her another sharp thumbs-up.
Her gloved hand reached down, steady, precise. She flipped the right engine start switch.
The TF30 turbine wound up with a high-pitched whine, climbing in tone until the RPM gauge spiked. At 20 percent, she cracked the throttle forward to idle. The engine roared to life with a thunderous cough, stabilizing into a deep growl. A moment later, she repeated the sequence for the left engine. Both TF30s now rumbled in unison, their vibration coursing through the cockpit, settling into her bones.
Emilie worked through the preflight routine with cold precision:
– Flight controls, full sweep, check.
– Flaps and slats, down, check.
– Spoilers, green light, check.
– Hydraulics, pressures stable.
– Weapons systems — safeties on, pylon status confirmed.
Everything sang back at her in perfect response.
She eased off the toe brakes. The Tomcat rolled forward with a weighty groan, its shadow stretching long under the blazing sun.
Behind her, Teppei's Tomcat rumbled alive, followed by Ayaka's. The trio taxied as one, formation tight, exhausts leaving shimmering scars of heat across the taxiway. They looked less like machines and more like predators moving together, silent and lethal.
At the runway threshold, Emilie held her brakes. The nose of her F-14 pointed straight down the scorched strip of asphalt, mirage ripples dancing above it.
The tower's voice crackled in her headset.
"Wolfsbane flight, you are cleared for takeoff. Altitude restrictions lifted. Good hunting out there."
Emilie keyed her mic. Her voice was steady, clipped. "Wolfsbane copies. Rolling."
Her hand slammed the throttles forward into full afterburner. Twin pillars of flame erupted behind her Tomcat, the cockpit vibrating under the unleashed fury. The acceleration pressed her into the seat, the runway blurring into streaks.
122 knots.
137.
145.
156.
169.
At 174 knots, she eased the stick back. The nose lifted smoothly, the beast clawing into the sky. The gear retracted with a muted thump, locked away as the ground fell fast beneath her.
Seconds later, Teppei and Ayaka tore into the sky behind her, afterburners blazing like twin comets.
Three F-14As broke westward, banking into tight formation. The desert sprawled beneath them — endless, searing, and unforgiving.
This wasn't just another mission.
They were going to get Megistus back.
Or burn half the goddamn desert trying.
In just thirty minutes, Wolfsbane flight was back over the arid expanse of Safhe Shantranj.
The desert stretched endlessly beneath them — fractured earth split by jagged ridges, heat rippling like waves across the landscape. At 1,300 feet AGL, the three F-14As carved through the shimmering haze, formation locked tight in a combat-triangle spread. Their wings flashed under the pitiless midday sun, exhaust trails distorting the air behind them.
Inside her Tomcat, Teppei's voice cracked through the comms, sharp with urgency.
"Alright, we're here. Come on — let's find her before her beacon goes dead!"
In the adjacent bird, Emilie's eyes narrowed behind her dark visor. She gave a brisk nod, voice steady.
"Right."
Her hand moved with controlled precision, trimming the stick, easing the Tomcat a few degrees starboard to align with the beacon's bearing. A steady, rhythmic ping pulsed in her headset — the locator signal. She held altitude, careful to keep spacing tight on her wingmen as the desert rolled past below.
The beeping quickened. Higher pitch. Faster tempo.
Closer.
Emilie leveled her wings, scanning the horizon. Heat mirages shimmered like liquid over the earth — and then, in the corner of her vision, glinting movement. Two hard specks slicing across the sky, sun flashing off their wings.
Her breath hitched. She recognized the silhouette instantly.
F/A-18 Hornets.
Her thumb flicked the master arm switch. The HUD bloomed to life, weapon symbology crawling across her visor. XLAA long-range active radar missiles selected. The Tomcat's AWG-9 radar tracked them immediately, painting both Hornets as target diamonds.
The lock tone shrieked in her ears.
No hesitation.
"Fox Three."
Both XLAA missiles dropped clean from the fuselage stations. Their motors ignited with a guttural roar, twin lances of fire streaking ahead. White contrails arced up into the burning sky, homing fast on their unsuspecting prey.
The Hornets didn't even break formation.
Seconds later — impact.
Two violent blossoms of light erupted in the distance, brilliant against the blue. Shrapnel and burning fuel sprayed outward, the explosions collapsing into thick black plumes. Shattered wreckage cartwheeled downward in fiery spirals, streaking smoke trails across the desert sky.
The comms went wild. On the enemy frequency, frantic chatter and static-laced calls erupted — panicked voices trying to make sense of what had just happened.
And then — on their secure channel, a weaker voice cut through, tinny but steady.
"…I'm okay… I can keep on going…"
Mona.
Her words bled through with background noise — rapid footsteps, uneven breathing, the rasp of fabric and gear clattering against her mic. She was moving, alive, but still trapped down there.
Teppei leaned forward in his seat, eyes darting below the canopy. Something flickered against the terrain — a shadow? A figure? He squinted.
"Hey, Raven! I think I saw someone! Can you confirm?"
Emilie craned her neck, scanning the jagged rocks below. Nothing but desert and broken ridges. Heat mirages twisted the surface into illusions.
Her tone was cutting.
"Have you gone senile, Herring? I didn't see shit."
Teppei scratched the side of his helmet, sheepish.
"Huh. Weird… I thought I saw someone…"
Emilie exhaled hard through her mask, her grip on the stick tightening.
"Don't tell me you've gone schizophrenic, Herring."
The locator ping slowed suddenly, growing faint. They were drifting off course. Emilie corrected instantly, banking the Tomcat into a gentle left turn. G-forces pressed into her shoulders, the desert horizon sliding across her canopy.
Then — the beeping jumped again. Rapid. Sharp.
Closer.
Emilie banked right, easing into a tight, controlled turn. The locator's tone climbed rapidly — beep-beep-beep — sharp, insistent, each pulse faster than the last.
She rolled out wings-level, stabilizing.
On the enemy frequency, chatter broke through the static, tense and disorganized:
"Enemy planes above! Do you see them?"
"Yeah — but it sounds like they already took out our air cover!"
Another voice cut in, low and grim:
"Doesn't matter. Doesn't sound like they've pegged us on IFF."
"And that poor bastard who bailed out last night? He's probably down to a pistol."
The allied channel burst alive, Mona's voice crackling over the noise. Despite the strain in her breathing, there was a smug edge to her words.
"Protect Raven? Heh. I'm the one being protected!"
Emilie scoffed, muttering under her breath.
"Heh. Let's see if you're still smug after this bullshit."
Her eyes darted between her HUD and the desert below. Multiple ground contacts were moving erratically, little blips scattered across the radar scope. Anxiety pressed at the back of her skull.
"Fuck this mission. Fuck this mission… this was so goddamn avoidable."
From her wing, Ayaka's calm voice flowed into the comms — even, steady, a lifeline of composure.
"Keep your spirits up, Captain. This will be over soon."
On the ground, Mona staggered forward through cracked sand, half-carrying a bleeding crewman from Sea Monster Three. The survivors stumbled behind her — gaunt POWs, dehydrated, their boots crunching across the blistering desert.
Over the wind, Mona froze.
A sound. Low at first, then rising into a banshee's howl. The distinctive note of twin turbofans tearing through desert sky.
She craned her head upward, eyes narrowing against the sun's glare.
Her hand fumbled for the battered survival radio clipped to her vest. She keyed it, voice raw.
"That sound… is that who I think it is?"
A beat. Her jaw clenched, but she smiled faintly despite herself.
"And is it even on our side?"
Her free hand balled into a fist. To the wounded man leaning on her, she whispered:
"It's okay. Emilie will come. For all of us."
Over comms, a new voice cut through.
"Sea Monster to Wolfsbane Leader! We're honing in on your signal! Getting stronger!"
In Emilie's cockpit, the locator tone spiked — then abruptly went silent.
Her gut dropped.
"God damn it!" she snarled, slamming her palm against the panel. "They're jamming us!"
Her eyes flicked up. A fresh radar blip painted on her scope — high, lumbering, distant.
Her voice cut sharp across the net.
"Jammer — one o'clock high! E-3 Sentry!"
No hesitation. Emilie shoved the throttles forward. The F-14A roared, engines howling as the afterburners lit. The Tomcat clawed skyward in a steep climb, vapor streaming off her wings.
The AWG-9 radar snapped the target diamond onto the E-3. Her gloved thumb danced over the weapons select. Sidewinders.
A solid tone screamed in her headset.
"Fox Two!"
Both AIM-9s leapt from their rails with a violent hiss, white smoke trails corkscrewing upward. Emilie inverted, yanking the stick hard, diving away on full throttle to avoid debris.
Above, the Sidewinders struck clean.
A fireball bloomed, brilliant against the sky. The E-3 shuddered apart, its fuselage shearing in half, wings spiraling down in sheets of flaming wreckage.
From her canopy, Ayaka saw the flash.
"Jammer craft down!" she reported crisply.
On enemy comms, chaos erupted:
"Eleven o'clock! Movement ahead!"
Emilie nosed her Tomcat down, dropping altitude fast. The desert rushed up, dunes screaming past the canopy. The locator's pulse reappeared, hammering at her headset — frantic, urgent.
Got you.
She banked right, adjusting course. The signal screamed louder, faster.
Then, a familiar voice cracked through allied comms, raw with fatigue:
"I… I heard that engine before… Emilie… is that you?"
Faint gunfire rattled through the open mic.
Enemy chatter flared back:
"You idiot! Hold your fire!"
"Sir! She's shooting back!"
Emilie's eyes caught it — movement on the sand. Figures waving, stumbling, clustered together.
Down below, Mona looked skyward — and saw the unmistakable silhouette of a Tomcat banking overhead.
"Emilie!!" she screamed.
Emilie keyed her mic, voice sharp.
"Sea Monster, this is Raven. We've located Captain Megistus and the downed Sea Monster Three crew."
The reply came back instantly, full of relief and urgency.
"Roger! We're inbound to your position!"
Inside the helicopter, one of the crew chuckled over the comms:
"Say... is this Megistus a looker?"
Emilie scoffed over the squadron net, her voice cutting through the static.
"Why don't you rescue our little princess and see for yourself."
A ripple of laughter buzzed across the channel.
"Heh. If she's hot, I'm asking her out."
As the Sea Monster helicopters pushed low over the dunes, rotor wash tearing the sand into swirling clouds, one of the pilots caught movement.
"Contact! I see them—bearing two o'clock, near that dune! Looks like our teammate's waving us in!"
Another crewman leaned forward in his harness, squinting.
"Wait—looks like Captain Megistus is holding someone at gunpoint…"
The Blackhawk dropped into a hover, the downwash blasting the dune into a storm of grit and haze. The machine settled with a bounce, landing struts thumping into the sand. Doors slid open hard, crewmen spilling out with weapons at the ready.
On the ground, Mona's stance was rigid, both hands locked on her Beretta. Her voice was sharp, pushed out over the thrum of the rotors.
"Tell me! Why are you attacking us?!"
The Natlan soldier stood stiff, eyes wide, sweat streaming down his dirt-caked face. He raised his hands high.
"Look, I don't know! I swear! Even our military's having doubts about this war! There's too much suspicion about how this all started! I swear, that's all I know!"
One of the Sea Monster crewmen shouted from the helicopter, voice nearly drowned by the engines.
"Captain Megistus! We're your rescue team! Come on—leave him!"
Mona's jaw clenched. Her finger hovered on the trigger guard for a heartbeat, eyes locked with the soldier's. She exhaled slowly, flipping the safety back on.
"You better start running."
The Natlan soldier didn't wait for a second warning. He turned and bolted into the dunes, stumbling as the sand swallowed his boots.
Mona turned sharply, sprinting for the Blackhawk. Crewmen reached out, hauling her aboard as she clambered in. The doors slammed shut, muffling the storm outside.
"We're all aboard! Let's get the hell outta here!" a crew chief barked.
The Blackhawk's turbines howled, pulling the bird back into the air with a hard climb-out. Sand whipped away below as it nosed east, banking into formation with its wingman.
"This is Sea Monster. We've got them secured. Thanks for the assist!" the pilot radioed.
Emilie keyed her mic, voice clipped but steady.
"Roger. And tell Mona…" her tone cooled, "I need to have a word with her once we land."
The helo crew relayed it back with a chuckle.
"Roger, Captain."
Teppei broke in, his voice light, trying to break the tension.
"Hey, don't you think that song would be perfect for a time like this, huh?"
Emilie exhaled through her mask, eyes narrowing as she trimmed her Tomcat into steady flight.
"Not today, Teppei."
"Whaaaat?!" Teppei groaned over the net. "I thought you liked that song!"
Emilie shook her head, eyes tracking her instruments as she rolled level into formation with the rest of Wolfsbane.
"No. I said the genre isn't my type. And that rock and roll shit you're always blasting definitely isn't."
The squadron rejoined cleanly, four F-14s locking into a diamond. Wings flexed with the turbulence, exhaust trails weaving in the desert air. Together, they banked east in a slow, deliberate arc, shadows stretching long across the dunes.
Back toward Petrichor.
Hours later…
The planes and helicopters finally settled onto the rain-darkened tarmac of Petrichor Air Force Base. The roar of engines faded to silence, leaving only the soft hum of cooling turbines and distant clatter of ground crews performing their checks.
Yet Emilie's body remained coiled, every muscle taut, eyes sharp even amid the calm.
She leapt down from her F-14A, boots slamming against the concrete, sending sparks of grit scattering. She didn't pause. She started toward Mona, who was already walking toward her from the opposite side of the apron, sand and dust still clinging to her uniform, hair matted with sweat and grit.
They met in the middle. Emilie didn't wait for pleasantries.
"What the fuck, Mona! I told you yesterday to stay in formation!"
Mona opened her mouth, voice tight, almost pleading.
"But—"
Emilie raised a finger, cutting her off with surgical precision.
"No buts! You are my responsibility as the team leader of this squadron. Just because you're a Captain doesn't mean you have the fucking seniority!"
Her voice sharpened, frustration boiling over like hot metal.
"This would've happened to you last month if Candace hadn't stepped in to save your sorry ass! You need to get your emotions in check! Especially when it comes to Candace! If you stay soft, it's gonna make you lose focus!"
"You could've died out there yesterday!"
Mona's gaze dropped, guilt washing over her like desert dust.
"I… I'm sorry, Captain…"
Emilie's expression softened, anger melting into something more worn — edged with exhaustion and care.
She exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain slightly.
"The reason I'm talking to you like this… is because I care."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice, grounding it with weight and sincerity.
"You said it yourself… you don't want to see any more men and women die in this pointless war."
She held Mona's gaze, eyes locking onto hers, fierce yet steady.
"And you could've become one of them."
Mona bit her lip, eyes stinging, guilt twisting into relief that Emilie was still here, still holding her accountable.
Emilie's tone shifted, deliberate, almost ceremonial.
"You made a vow, right?"
Mona nodded silently, voice caught in her throat.
"You said you didn't want to lose another flight lead…"
Emilie's hand tightened into a fist at her side, knuckles white against the fabric of her flight suit.
"...and when I agreed to take the lead, I made a vow too."
She inhaled deeply, letting the weight of the words settle.
"And that's to not lose my wingman."
"You are my wingman, Mona."
"You are Wolfsbane Two."
Mona's hand went to her chest, trembling slightly. She gave a shaky nod.
"Y-Yeah…"
Without hesitation, Emilie closed the distance, pulling Mona into a tight embrace. The grit of the desert clung to their suits, but the weight of the mission and the day's near-deaths melted away in the hold.
"Please, Mona…" Emilie whispered into her shoulder, voice low and urgent.
"No more dumb shit like this."
Mona clutched Emilie back, burying her face against her chest, inhaling the faint scent of jet fuel and sweat.
"I promise, Emilie…" she breathed, voice raw but resolute.
"No more."
The sun dipped lower behind distant mountains, casting long shadows over the tarmac. The wind carried the faint roar of engines in the distance, the reminder of the war still out there.
But for a moment, in the cool twilight and amid the lingering haze of dust, there was a quiet victory — the survival of a squadron, the return of a wingman, and a vow renewed.