Heaven's Gate

The Forgotten Ace

By Blue Dragon

Amidst the blue skies, a link from past to future. The sheltering wings of the protector . . . .

September 19, 2019/San Salvacion/Suburbs/2042hrs

He couldn't quite remember when those words came to him, but it was during a time that a 'protector' was unnecessary.

"Are you still working on that letter?" Her soft and quiet voice gently broke the silence as she looked over his shoulder, watching him write his letter. He seemed oblivious to her words.

". . . Yes, yes, I'm still writing it. Anyone that could fly like that at least deserves a thank-you."

An exasperated sigh escaped her lips, and she continued across the well-furnished living room and towards the door.

"It's been almost fifteen years since that incident. Are you sure that he's still at that base?"

He looked up at his wife, and smiled a tired smile. Their eyes locked, and she brushed a strand of her rusty-brown hair out of her eyes. He could see his own gaze reflected in her lighter and expectant eyes, and feel the flicker of a temporary mutual understanding. When with her, he still felt that he was at a point where words were required, if not to confirm the feelings they felt, then simply to hear her speak to him.

The dim light from the moon was at an angle so that it was beamed in through the windows, giving everything a natural dreamy aura. Normally, as a child, the sky had seemed as intimidating to him as the ocean, and sometimes, even more intimidating. He had thought that the feeling of insignificance would melt away as he grew physically and emotionally, but as if growing alongside a brother, the sky seemed just as huge. While everything around him was minimized, that same sky seemed as intimidating as ever, if not more. But now, it was gentle.

"I can feel it, Faye, I can feel it. And I can't imagine anyone who hit the rank of 20-time ace even thinking about retiring until he was old and gray."

She sighed again, this one more playful. A cool breeze drifted in through the large and open windows, blowing her hair back out of place. "Alright then, I understand. As long as you don't stay up too long, you have to be at work early tomorrow. I'm going down to the bar for a few minutes, Daddy said he found something in the basement that he thought I should see. We always find more and more supplies from the war deeper and deeper into that cellar . . . . Jack? Jack?"

He shook his head as if startled from a trance.

"Sure, be careful at this time of night." He stood up from his desk, laying his paper down on the smooth mahogany, and glancing out at the clear night sky.

Staring at it took him back to the countless days years ago when he was waiting for Yellow Thirteen's plane to swoop the skies again. The aircraft would always cut through the air like an arrow, turn and maneuver crisply and sometimes without a sound, and then return to its base faster than it had arrived. After he had been shot down, he would still feel on the edge every time he stared at that sky, subconsciously hoping that the ace pilot would return.

Somehow, the fact that he could never explain his feelings to the pilot that had shot down the aircraft directly onto his home didn't bother him. Somehow, he felt at peace, as if Yellow 13 had already known. It was as if taking him in as one of his own was a kind of apology to the boy he had orphaned with his careless dog fighting.

"And pick yourself something up while you're there, okay?" He walked across the carpet and laid his writing tools on a smaller desk beside a couch, reaching into the pocket of his jeans as he approached her and clasped her hand into his, still feeling the familiar electricity as he handed her a twenty dollar note.

"You're eating for two now . . . . "He tapped her lower abdomen, and she smiled while looking through him.

Jack had noticed such actions from her had been common now; she would stare through him instead of directly at him.

"I will." She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek before she grabbed her keys from the wall, and began opening the door. "I love you."

A flurry of night air rushed in as she opened the door fully, and then closed it behind her, leaving her husband there to wonder.

Where did that come from? He thought. It wasn't often that she would say something like that before quick trips, she had almost seemed desperate for that one moment. After knowing her for such a long time, he had learned to read her emotions.

Jack listened to the familiar sound of the engine start, and then the rolling of the tires against the smooth pavement from his driveway and towards the road. The sound of tires screeching was heard, and Jack laughed to himself.

Always in a hurry.

He stared back at the letter he was writing, and sleep began its ever-persistent pull on the corners of his eyes. After taking a few steps back to his couch, he sat down in it suddenly.

"The pilot that shot him down . . . . "He finished his thoughts as he closed his eyes swiftly, and drifted into an unusually content sleep.

September 19, 2004/North Point/Air Base/1056hrs

"He's a freak, that's all." The pilot slammed his helmet down on the table and sat down in front of it, sliding his tray in front of him. They had all gotten used to speaking loud in that base, for military drills, and for the need to be heard over the perpetual chatter of the cafeteria.

The pilot began digging into his slightly-burned macaroni and cheese as he listened to his other friends exchange theories on the new pilot.

Large groups of them swiveled in and out of the lunch lines and around the room, turning the room (that had been vacant a mere three minutes ago) into a sea of green uniforms. About a dozen of those pilots sat at a table in the corner, discussing the newcomer, and of course, the first mission.

"Well he's one of us, get over it." Another pilot stuffed a bagel into his mouth, almost choking on its dryness. "Damn cooks . . . . "

A female pilot poked a cube of hairy red gelatin cautiously with the end of a fork.

"He never talks. We've never seen him eat or sleep, he works out in the gym eight hours, the flight simulator for five hours, and the only thing we're sure he does is take a leak every now and then." She moved on to the salad, whose leaves didn't look very inviting.

The first pilot continued to choke down a forkful of macaroni. "At least we know that someone sucks as bad as we do. That is why they're putting us all on the Mobius squadron, right?"

By chance or perhaps by fate, there was a quick silence over the entire cafeteria save a few loudmouthed officers. Even the squeaking lights at the top of the ceiling seemed to stop bouncing back and forth. A good hundred pairs of eyes made their way to the end of the room, where people came in and entered.

At the double doors stood a man that didn't appear to be any different from the rest of the pilots at the base.

Oblivious to the dozens of onlookers, he wiped the remnants of leaves out of his blond hair and took the time to pull the pine needles from his sunglasses, before readjusting them. Without a word, he walked across the cafeteria.

His steps echoed across the room like a giant's, and his path was completely straight, as if calculated.

Without a second thought, he stopped in front of one of the tables bordering the worn-down wall, and snatched an apple out of the basket.

Gasps echoed around the room as he took a huge bite of the fruit, and chewed it slowly and loudly. This continued for a good five minutes, the entire cafeteria watching him through every bite.

He took his time, and licked the droplets of apple juice from the side of his cheek before releasing a contented sigh, and tossing the core into the trashcan without giving it a second glance. The words he then spoke embedded themselves into the souls of every pilot around him, and made one of the most notable impressions upon the entire ISAF.

"Good apple." With that, followed by a soft burp, he made his way back to the double doors. With disregard to even a look back, the new recruit closed the doors behind him.

After about three seconds of silence, the room came alive again, as if a principal had just left a classroom of high school kids alone.

An electrical crackling rung over the entire crowd from a high and rusty speaker, and a commanding voice spoke.

"All Mobius pilots, report to the airfield within five minutes, I repeat, all Mobius pilots report to the airfield within five minutes."

After the announcement, the entire Mobius squadron began wolfing down bits of food and gagging down the rest of the contents of their plates. Of course, they had quite a bit of trouble, and on multiple occasions had to wash it down with some of the less-than fresh milk.

"Damn . . . you'd think that with a steady flow of income from the people's taxes they could at least provide us with some decent nourishment . . . !" A lagging pilot noted as he hurried after his allies.

After navigating the man-made labyrinth and exiting from the south entrance, the Mobius squadron had assembled in standard In-Line formation, lining the side of a runway.

The flight commander, after a routine inspection, stepped towards the center. The sky was as bright and clear as any summer day's sky, and at the time the clouds were minimal. Every once in a while, a huge one would cast a shadow on the airfield and hang there for a few minutes before lifting again, much like the attitudes of the nervous pilots. They hadn't anticipated the heat, so they found themselves regretting that they had kept their coats on.

Every once in a while, a cool wind would blow through and lift the flag prestigiously, before dying down as quickly as it had arrived.

There was nothing but flat ground and road in nearly every direction, so the same wind had quite a distance to travel undisturbed before bouncing off of the flight.

"Flight! Atten-HUT!" The commander had much charisma, and didn't hesitate to exude it as he called the line into standard position.

He took a quick routine glance at the ISAF flag.

"Present ARMS!" He commanded, after which he performed and about-face, beginning to recite the Erusean Pledge of Allegiance. After they finished, the flight commander continued.

"Order ARMS!"

The flight dropped their arms, just as the loud sound of double doors smashing was heard in the distance.

". . . . . " Even the pilots at attention couldn't help but sneak a glance to the area behind them, where a lone pilot was trudging across the grass, running his hand through his hair, and nervously adjusting his sunglasses.

"Private 666?" The commander mumbled angrily as the pilot fell in to the commander's left. "You were supposed to be out here over three minutes ago. Those minutes can mean the difference between life and death in the battlefield; you'd do well to remember that."

The lone pilot gave a quick nod.

"At ease, gentlemen."

The pilots relaxed, and the commander began to pace around while giving quick instructions.

"Your survival training, your flight simulators, the endless testing, it all comes down to this. When you report in to your stations, AWACS commander will give you secondary briefing. It's his birthday, so don't screw up for his sake. Today marks yet another anniversary of the tentatively named Ulysses 1994XF04 Planet Fall, the event that led up to the situation we face currently. It is expected that today, there will be an attack from the nearby Rigley Air Base to finish us off. Our radar's been down . . . . so we've been penetrated by half-a-dozen bombers. We're at the end of our rope here, you pilots are our last hope. You are to be at your stations within the next three minutes. DisMISSED!"

The information given about the time factor slowly sunk into the heads of the pilots, after which they began scrambling back to the entrance, hoping to find the stations in time. The lone pilot, however, simply fell in behind the stumbling crowd, taking his time to head back to his station.

September 19, 2019/Comona Skies/1742hrs

The pilot sat back in his seat, doing his best to adjust his mask.

Thirty thousand feet, despite the fact that it was over five miles high, wasn't a particularly exciting altitude.

Thin clouds would roll by and off of his plane, seeming to disappear as he came closer. The controls and radar would flicker, and the autopilot was always steady. Always. And that was what drove this pilot insane.

After the war, he had spent the last fifteen years doing nothing but routine flight practice and patrol for seven hours a day, six days a week.

AWACS would buzz in with his annoying voice, ask of a report, and the he would respond 'Nothing out of the ordinary', every single time.

"Mobius 1, report."

"This is Mobius 1. Nothing out of the ordin . . . . "He scanned the skies, just to make sure, it wasn't really necessary though. F.E.A.F. hadn't even considered any type of rebellion in the years following the war over the mainland, why would they start now?

All he saw was the endless blue, a few thin cirrus clouds, but this time, something different. It was only a small dot pasted on the blue sky, but his eyes had trained him.

"Mobius 1, I did not copy. Could you repeat the message?"

"AWACS, requesting engagement of HUD. I might have seen something."

"Granted, HUD engagement should now be functioning. Are you picking anything up, Mobius 1?"

The pilot scanned the skies again, once again seeing a flash, and that same dot on the blue sky.

"Hold on for a second, I'm still checking . . . . " For the first time in weeks, he disengaged autopilot to begin a sidewind. The ailerons seemed to squeak from lack of use as the plane rolled to the left, and the stabilizers pulled up the nose, tilting him in a more direct position to the mostly empty skies over Comona. There was a pause, and then he noted something that he thought he would never see.

"AWACS, I'm seeing a yellow flash. I repeat, there is a yellow flash, confirmed visually. Pulling in for close—"

The sudden sound of an incredibly loud thruster engaged fully flew past him as another yellow SU-37 zoomed from behind him.

"AWACS, this is Mobius 1, we have unauthorized craft flying in aircraft airspace."

"Warn them!"

The pilot smiled to himself. He felt alive for the first time in years. But alas, he probably wouldn't get the chance to fight. It wasn't lost yet, however, there hadn't been any response, and they were still yellow aircraft. Even though the probability of a yellow squadron still existing was at absolute zero . . . . or perhaps a bit more.

"Identify yourself." He spoke calmly into the radio after it had established a connection.

". . . . "He received no response.

The pilot pulled his plane down a bit, so that the angle of attack was a bit less, keeping him parallel with the ground. He continued to fly at about twice the normal stalling speed.

"This is ISAF, you do not have authorization to be flying in these skies, please land immediately."

"Wasn't it you ISAF who said the skies belonged to everyone?" Was the response Mobius 1 received. After which, he heard the familiar hissing of a missile barreling straight for him at hundreds of miles per hour. The projectile zoomed in straight towards the unsuspecting pilot.

"Mobius 1 . . . . "AWACS began.

The pilot grabbed his stick and pulled back, immediately engaging the thrusters. The afterburners kicked in as the plane jerked up and forwards against the g's and into the endless sky as the missile slid under him and gradually lost course.

"You have a missile alert!"

"AWACS, this is Mobius 1, and seeing as I was almost blown to pieces, I think it is safe to say that I have established that. Permission to engage."

"Granted. Are you going in alone?"

"Yeah, why the hell not?"

With a smile under his mask, he turned the plane. He hadn't had a particularly great armament, a couple of missiles and two XMAA's. The F-15 wasn't really in perfect shape, either. However, these were the odds that he had longed for.

"What's that . . . . Yellow 22 reporting to base. Yellow 4 and I are currently engaging a lone bandit."

The pilot smiled further as he listened to the intercepted communication and continued to steady his flight.

"Could it be . . . . the legendary ISAF pilot?" Enemy AWACS radioed back.

Yellow 4 . . . . I thought I shot down Yellow 4 . . . what's going on? The pilot released the lock on his missiles as he began a mile-away game of chicken with the aircraft. He felt the returning rush as his plane shook from the amazing amount of force.

I can fly like this plane was meant to fly . . . .

The two continued to barrel at each other. The pilot felt the familiar shake of his plane as the frame attempted to stabilize itself. The speedometer began to vibrate rapidly as he approached the sound barrier. The sea below him zoomed by as if it were an endless wave, barreling backwards at an unnatural speed.

His movement was a work of art. His maneuvers absolute. His fighting admired as much by his enemies as by his allies. After years of dry flying, he was flinging himself back into combat miles in the sky. It was there that he felt most alive, and it was there that he hoped to die. He was the legendary pilot of the Independent State's Allied Forces.

He was Mobius 1.

September 19, 2019/San Salvacion/Olde Towne/2107hrs

Jack slid his hands slightly down the steering wheel. The windows of his car were rolled down to let the night air rush in and cool him down. The vehicle rolled smoothly along the country road, and towards the Olde Towne portion of the city. The sky wasn't particularly starry, it seemed to be less full than usual, even.

It was almost as if it were making room for something else in the sky.

After waking up from his nap, he found that his wife still hadn't returned. The bar wasn't all that far away, and even fifteen minutes seemed like an oddly long time to be gone for just a routine inspection.

When they were just kids, celebrating after the war, they had begun to fully understand each other emotionally. The entire town had partied all day, and all night, and then slept, ate, and drank. The air of celebration for the ISAF victory that followed never really left, the town seemed in a constant state of happiness.

However, something was different about that day. Something . . . . lifted from that entire part of the city, lifted from the people and made room for another feeling, and from the way the sky looked, it was a feeling that was less than pleasant.

"She understands . . . . "He said absently to himself. He had said many things absently to himself that day, constantly thinking about Faye. The fact that she was beautiful beyond words was simply a bonus, what honestly attracted him to her unnaturally wasn't just the manifestation of his childhood crush, but her soul.

As corny as even he thought it sounded, it was her soul. It was her soul that understood him to the point that she could almost read his mind, to the point that only she knew his true feelings about Yellow 13 and the ace that finally shot him down.

She was one of the only people that could even keep the memory alive of the hero, who was probably then only a forgotten ace.

Gradually, the secluded country road gave way to a more urbanized appearance, and the view of the bar, the bar where so much had happened came into view, the fittingly named Sky Kid.

A feeling of dread pierced his heart as he stopped the car over the rocky pavement. He left the engine running, and exited the vehicle. His eyes were highlighted by the moon's light for a second, and a flash of movement zipped through the sky. Not the type of movement that was clearly noticeable, but an almost abstract type where one would contemplate whether or not it had actually been there.

Ignoring the feeling, Jack stepped out onto the thousands of tiny rocks that served as a makeshift pavement, and looked towards the well-worn bar.

The edges of the sign had a sort of casual perpendicularity, in a way that made it seem well crafted, but still modest.

As he moved across the portion of the pavement that had become particularly bright, he looked up to see that the lighting outside was fully engaged, a strange thing for the pub at that hour. He stopped in front of the door, barely able to make out the shadows through the glass from around the corner, and grasped the cold doorknob. When he removed his hand after turning and pulling, he grimaced.

The handle was bloody.

With surprise, he almost gasped out as he stared at the palm of his hand, stained red. Worse yet, the blood had been fresh and still wet.

At this point, he had become even more worried.. With haste, he pulled the door and closed it behind him just as quickly with a quiet bang, and wove his way around the many tables. The chairs were all stacked on top of the tables in an organized manner, nothing about the supposedly closed building seemed out of place.

The low and dark ceiling seemed to press into him further than usual as he felt his heartbeat increase, slowly moving to the shadowed area around the corner. He was being terribly reminded of when he accidentally stumbled upon the guerilla operation as a child, the memory of his temporary capture was still clear in his mind, even after those many years.

After a few more steps, he immediately turned the corner, greeted by the sight of his wife. Then, almost instantly, he noticed her bloody shoulder.

His first reaction was panic, his heart quickened and his breath deepened, before he realized that her eyes were opened, she was bandaged, and she appeared to be looking away from him, at someone else.

Next to her was her father, a man that had aged well. A morose expression was carved into his face as he stared away at an angle similar to that of his daughter.

"Who's there?" A gruff voice called out.

Jack had to keep himself from calling out as Faye jerked her head to see him standing there. He heard footsteps plodding towards his location, the only lighting was dim enough so that he could see his possible enemies' shadow, but his own was invisible.

For that moment, he was frozen, paralyzed with fear. It was only the pleading emotion that was expressed to him in the eyes of his wife that he was able to move.

Just as the man jerked his head around the corner, Jack had swiftly swooped into a crevice that shared the same wall with the room he had previously peeked into. Cautiously, Jack peered through a crack as he flattened himself into the dark corner.

It was a man, very tall, and despite his intimidating build, appeared very quiet. His gray eyes turned and scanned the walls, staring directly at Jack. His eyes narrowed the second they brushed over his position. It was then that he noticed the USP he held in his hand, and he was apparently ready to fire it at any time.

He continued to stare straight at Jack, who had the overwhelming urge to run. Something in him told him not to.

To his surprise, the man swept the dark with his eyes again, and then ran a hand through his blonde and messy hair, adjusting his coat and fingering the sunglasses attached to his shirt as he retreated back into the room.

The dark had saved him.

Jack slowly let out his breath, and then heard the sounds of slightly muffled orders, and a door opening. A few seconds later, he dared to creep out, and peeked around the corner.

By fate, Faye was glancing at him, with a calming look.

Don't worry, she mouthed.

Before the door was closed, and before Jack slammed a dent into the fragile, wooden wall of the dark corridor, he was able to catch the number on the back of the man's coat.

It was a large number '13', emblazoned in yellow.