Surprise!

"Invade, destroy, repeat
Invade, destroy, repeat
We won't accept defeat
Invade, destroy, repeat

(Come on, come on, come on, come on)
It's time for destruction, time for destruction
(Come on, come on, come on)
It's time for some fun, yeah, time for some fun
(Come on, come on, come on, come on)
No need for instruction, need for instruction
(Come on, come on, come on)
No, you ain't got a chance, but you might as well run"

- Powerman 5000 – Invade, Destroy, Repeat

/\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Offutt AFB

Riding high due to the strip of paper in Josefson's pocket, no one noticed the whine of the plane engines until it was just a bit too late.

"…Shit," Josefson spoke flatly, halting upon sight of the white aircraft with green details. Nothing had changed with their formation or their flight pattern (although the lieutenant colonel would swear they were lower than before), they were just late. Unexpectedly, annoyingly, fatally late.

He amazed himself with how quickly he gesticulated the order to stand dead still, even though it was likely too late anyway. In fact, Josefson would say with complete certainty that he had been spotted, and that it wasn't just pessimism or intuition speaking.

He'd say that because Josefson saw the pilot of the lead aircraft. He saw the erect ears, the piebald fur, the brown eyes that seemed to stare right back into his own. And with it, he saw just how drastically the situation had changed.

Then they were gone. Josefson's perception of time returned to normal speed. A quiet breeze blew by, rustling through the trees, the risen flags, and the disillusioned squad of four. For a while, nobody moved. Realization froze them in place while their eyes continued to search the skies.

"…Just…shit!" the leader shouted out at the heavens. "Why now?"

The others could see his body trembling and his fingers twitching. Although their leader seemed to be reacting a little more zealously than what was maybe reasonable, all of them understood why. It was easy to get angry at things you couldn't control. Especially after experiencing the huge high of getting a way to fight back, and especially if those uncontrollable things could have deadly consequences.

"I…uh…I thought they were supposed to fly over at 11:03…" Byron whispered, still unbelieving. He seemed to have shrunk six inches.

"Well, apparently 11:13 is the new 11:03, and that one little fact just blew our damn cover!"

"Who says they saw us? That fast and that low ain't good for visuals," Roderick reminded them.

"No, you don't understand. I saw him stare at us. And just look where we're standing! They'd have to be blind!"

They stood arguing in a rough circle, right in that same spot, right in the open. No one seemed to realize it either. The future had overtaken the present.

"Ok, so what? They saw us. Big whoop. How much could that possibly change things? Before we got those codes, we were pretty well screwed anyway. The way I see it, we're still screwed, except now we're screwed with weapons," Parker pointed out.

"Don't you guys get it? Our cover's blown! They're probably painting a giant target on our backs as we speak!"

Josefson was pacing back and forth in an agitated fashion now, doing his best to scream at himself rather than scream at his men, but his previous words were showing just how futile those efforts were. To have his hopes manipulated like a puppet on a string had just shaken something deep inside him. It was a memory where he had felt the exact same thing, although he couldn't pin down the context of that situation in his current fury.

"Isn't that all the more reason to fight, then?" Byron spoke suddenly, putting the brakes on Josefson's rapid steps. "I mean, better to be a target that's not easy to hit."

A moment of silence passed before Roderick responded sardonically. "Holy shit. I never thought I'd agree with this guy."

"Yeah, me too," Parker chuckled. "But he's right. Them spotting us does not affect our ability to kick butt in the slightest."

Josefson would concede that they were right. But he still couldn't help the feeling that, somehow, they spotting his group would affect their ability to kick butt. More than in the slightest, even. Instead of looking forward to their return to the offensive, he found he was now dreading it. And for what, a glint in the enemy's eye? Barely evidence at all. Yet…there had been something between them. Josefson had felt it, some transfer of energy he didn't quite understand, but that he knew existed. Something that somehow guaranteed their safety if they stayed put. But it was too late to go back on that now. The other fifteen would never accept it after they found out the F/S-217s could be unlocked.

He lowered his head and raised it again with a deep breath. You can't force anger to leave that quickly, but he did his best anyway.

"Ok. Alright. Let's not change plans, then. We'll go back, give the news, let them eat lunch if they want, and then ambush the 14:00 patrol. Although we need to be completely sure of whether or not this thirteen after the hour bullshit remains a pattern before we go. Sound fair?"

"Works for me," Roderick replied.

"Makes sense," Byron assented.

"Awesome, the attack is still on!" Parker cheered as they started back for the bunker.

Josefson wondered cynically if that attitude would still prevail in a couple hours.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\

Eppley Airfield

Aside from Beta Squad being ten minutes late, nothing of note happened during Caleb and company's first few patrol runs.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\\

LSS Jericho

It was amazing. Somehow, even after spending thirty hours unconscious and only two and a half hours awake, Fox McCloud still managed to get a full night's sleep. Even after Dennis' story had given him so much to think about, he had still slept. The clock in the room, now synced to a human time zone for simplicity's sake, had crept all the way around to 11:30.

He got out of a regular cot (as opposed to a hospital cot) and stretched. Disquieting cracks came out of his skeleton; the vulpine suddenly knew his next workout was going to be a bitch.

Yes, a lot of things had happened in the 30 hours he had been unconscious; Dennis had explained each and every one in such detail that he had practically redefined the term "photographic memory." However, it was terribly obvious that the feline had a biased point of view. How he had chastised the Cornerian government for utilizing propaganda, yet he himself had done the exact same thing.

That feline hated the war. Hated it with a passion. As much as Fox had wanted to suggest he just quit the armed forces, the vulpine understood that Dennis was stuck in his position. Although he felt no pity, he felt empathy. But hey, that's why he was a mercenary and not a Cornerian soldier.

Dennis' bias, however, made it difficult to regard his statements with any seriousness. Fox had an accurate timeline in his head, but none of the events held any emotional significance. They had simply happened. He was just as indifferent to the war now as he was when he was knocked out.

Then again, there were some slightly positive feelings about it; after all, this war had become another source of income. Sure, this wasn't his proudest admittance, but he'd probably be in the hole for the rest of his life for the Great Fox if it weren't for conflicts like this.

He shrugged as he walked. Either way, he felt it prudent to contact Falco to see what he had to say about current events. He yawned once more before switching on his communicator. As far as he knew, it hadn't left his wrist since he went for that sandwich at Fernando's, so long ago.

He scrolled down to Falco and pressed "Call."

Soon after, Falco's holographic head popped up over the vulpine's arm, but he seemed preoccupied. He must have clicked "Answer" just to stop the annoying ringing.

"Hey, Falco, you there or are you busy?" Fox called at him.

The voice seemed to shake the avian out of his concentration. It was a voice that he'd thank whatever higher power existed for letting him hear it again.

"Fox, s'that you? You're finally awake?" he replied, although then his holographic head had jerked sideways for a moment.

"Yeah. Woke up late last night as a matter of fact, but, uh, am I interrupting something?"

"Yeah, no, uh, hang on, Fox. Gimme like five minutes, this British base is being a real dickwad."

It was refreshing to see that Falco hadn't changed at all. Fox had to then stifle a chuckle; the phrase "Gimme like five minutes" had brought back many memories involving dinner and the locked door to Falco's room. But, like all those times, the vulpine gave him the five minutes with a shake of the head.

Throughout that time, Fox heard the constant roar of nova bomb explosions, along with the weaker growl of conventional explosives, the latter dying out rapidly. It seemed poignant for some strange reason, although he didn't know enough to pin it down. Soon, though, Falco's expression changed from one of concentration back to his average arrogant grin.

"Heh, sorry about that. Those were some damn well hidden anti-aircraft guns, I gotta say," Falco admitted nervously. Luckily for him, Fox didn't ask why his voice had just cracked there. "So how the hell are ya?"

"Way better than yesterday, that's for sure."

Falco laughed. "Good to see yer sense of humor came out okay."

"Look, I need to hear your side of what's going on. I already talked to that Dennis guy, but he was playing devil's advocate like it was going out of style. So what's really going on?"

Always like Fox, cutting straight to business.

"Well, how much do ya remember? There was quite a while where no one was really sure how conscious you were."

"Imagine I remember nothing after that…uh…vomiting business on the bridge," Fox recalled disgustedly. He knew he'd never want to go through that again if he could help it.

"Alright, s'pose I'll start there then. Yeah, after that, Pepper really cut to the chase with what he wanted. Said he'd pay us triple the rate he did during the Lylat Wars, plus all the nova bombs we could use. I'd have to be as stupid as Slippy to turn down an offer like that, even if I didn't have the personal reasons that I did."

"Hey, what the heck?!" the frog's high-pitched voice exclaimed.

"Oh, ease up already, Slippy! Anyway, yeah. We warped at 2100 CST two nights ago and transferred you to Pepper's ship 'cause he promised top-notch medical care. That's why you woke up there. Then, since about 0600 yesterday we've been running missions with the lead attack force. All of which, I might add, have been amazingly successful," Falco bragged.

"Am I right in saying that those personal reasons were-"

"You being brought to a pathetic state by radiation sickness? Yeah, that's right."

"Falco…" the vulpine growled, his paw rubbing his temples. "I'm…I'm not that big of a reason, right? You're not trying to do all this just because of me, are you? That's not worth it."

"Bud, there are times to be humble. This ain't one of them."

Fox looked away.

" 'Sides, we can't forget about all that crap going on in Corneria City, either."

The vulpine nodded. Confirmation on that front was nice. He still felt rather detached from everything, but at the very least, the R-bomb fucking with their capital city…that much had been true. Plus, although it was less admissible, his heart had been warmed by the steps they had taken for him. Rarely these days did one ever see such dedication to a leader.

The vulpine had also figured out how to remedy his feeling of detachment. What better way than to dive back into the action?

"In that case, now that the sickness is done with, do you know who I have to talk to in order to rejoin my team?"

Surprisingly, instead of a rapid answer, what he got was an avian buddy rubbing the back of his neck and making stalling noises with his throat.

"Yeah, uh…about that…look, how much did that Dennis guy tell ya about radiation sickness?"

"It never really came up. Since it had already ended, it didn't seem important," he replied quite truthfully.

"That's the thing, Fox…It ain't over. Slippy looked it up, apparently radiation sickness has some kind of latent period. Sometime in the next four weeks, it's supposed to hit ya again even harder."

"What?" he responded, both ears tilting to the right. "That sounds silly."

"Hey, I agree, but that doesn't make it any less true."

Fox just kept shaking his head in disbelief. That radiation sickness coming back worse? How was that even possible? Wasn't one trip through hell enough?

"Look, uh…if yer really serious about flying during that latent period, and believe me, it'd be awesome if you could, yer gonna have to talk to Pepper. It's his order, not ours."

How convenient. Fox was already on the old bulldog's ship. Granted, most people would cower from the necessity to negotiate with a person as stout as General Pepper, but the vulpine figured his saving of the Lylat System from Andross six or seven months ago had earned him some bargaining power. Plus, he was almost certain the general had a soft spot for him somewhere in that battle-hardened heart.

"Alright," Fox assented. "I guess that's what I'll do. Thanks for the help, Falco."

"Anytime, buddy." And the link was cut.

Fox took a deep breath and stretched himself again. It was important for one to get in to a particular mental state before speaking with the old grouch that ran the military. Perhaps that was why he had more success than most on that front, that realization. Or maybe he was just fortunate; he certainly had more luck at his disposal than most as well.

Regardless, he made his way slowly into the hallway, partly relearning what it felt like to walk for a moment or two. Then, he moved with purpose towards the elevator. On the vulpine's face was that famous stoic look that could be construed as any number of emotions, but in this case was likely expressing a sense of quiet confidence. Buried somewhere in his face fur, perhaps there was a smug grin.

Even if he hadn't ever been on the Jericho before, he would've had no trouble locating Pepper's office. Just like his Great Fox, the Jericho was a Dreadnought-class cruiser. Indeed, that class was widely considered the "preferred model for administrative uses as well as combative." Or at least that's what Space Dynamics' tagline was.

In any case, he soon found himself knocking on the General's door with a gloved, orange paw. "Come in," said the voice with a slightly unhappy tone.

Fox did so. Pepper had his readers on and was scratching away on some kind of official document; the vulpine had a hunch it was some kind of requisition form, but from across the room there was no way to be sure. The bulldog glanced up and felt his unhappiness at being interrupted being replaced by a slight feeling of relief.

"Ah, Fox! Awake and moving again, I see!"

"Yes, sir. Did anyone tell you yet? You seem surprised."

"No one told me, as a matter of fact. Although, if I knew, it wouldn't be such a pleasant surprise."

"True enough, sir."

"I take it you'd like to know what all is going on? I'll go ahead and schedule a private briefing for you, if you'll be patient-" Pepper was already reaching for his phone when Fox interrupted that, too.

"That won't be necessary. I've already spoken with Dennis, and he's told me everything."

Pepper's face fell like a stone. Now that he knew Dennis had gotten to his best pilot first, this impromptu meeting had lost its joy quicker than Andross had lost his marbles. The bulldog could only imagine what ideas his CSO had shoved into Fox's head.

"Oh. So then why are you here?" he grunted with a sudden coldness.

"Heh, I know what you're thinking, sir. Dennis is many things, but he's not subtle."

An inaudible sigh worked its way out of Pepper's jowls.

"Frankly, I don't understand why you keep him around," Fox continued. "He's more seditious than most Venomians I know."

"Yeah, that's probably true," Pepper replied in a what-you-gonna-do tone. "But the cat trained under Lance, and Lance was one of our best. If I recall, you knew him well."

"I did. He aced every single science exam anyone ever gave to him," he chuckled.

"So you see the problem. Dennis is poised to be even better than Lance if he sticks around. I just can't find a replacement on such short notice that could be of such high caliber. Say, why don't you have a seat?" He indicated to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

So far, thought Fox, this is going well. He had already improved Pepper's mood by lowering his hopes and then raising them again, they had spoken on an issue about which they could both complain, and now the general had offered him a seat. Generally, if you could sit in Pepper's office, you just about had him in your paws.

"So if sedition isn't on your mind, what is?" he asked, folding his stiffened fingers in front of his muzzle, his eyes open in easy curiosity.

Now was when one cut to the chase, when you finally had Pepper at ease. "I want to fly with my team again, sir."

There was silence. Pepper's paws wobbled slightly as his fingers made a slight drumming motion. He studied Fox's face closely for a moment before falling back into his own chair, trying to choose his words carefully.

"Absolutely not, and if you talked to Dennis, you should know why."

"No, actually I don't know why. So what if there's a latent period. It's surely not happening now."

Pepper took a deep breath and tried to put on his most sincere smile. "Adamant as usual, Fox. Normally I like that about you. But you have to understand that radiation sickness is more dangerous than it seems." Fox just kept looking at him though, with that look that said his argument hadn't been properly countered. "Look, let me take an example. How long did it take you to go from first feeling sick to vomiting violently?"

The vulpine's eyes rolled up in thought. How long had it taken? It certainly felt like forever, that's for sure.

"I…uh…I'm not sure. Maybe an hour and a half? Two hours? The time wasn't really my focus at that point."

"Fair enough. We'll say two hours. That's a very rapid pace to get from perfectly normal to forcibly expelling the contents of your stomach and small intestine onto the floor, wouldn't you agree? And that was only the initial stage! After the latent period, it's going to be worse! You'd probably be lucky to get fifteen minutes to realize it, get out of whatever mission you're doing, land, and get to the infirmary, with your thoughts clouded and your reflexes dulled to boot! Combine that with the fact it could happen at almost any point in the next four weeks without any warning whatsoever, and it doesn't take a Lance to tell you how risky your proposition becomes."

"What, so you're just gonna waste my talent? Is that it?" Fox argued. For an indiscernible reason, he felt like he wasn't being told something.

At this, though, Pepper began to laugh. "You haven't been to the map room yet, have you, my boy? I'd hate to tell you you're not needed, but we've been getting along quite well so far."

Fox stared back, still holding a look of shocked disgust. "You're making it sound like you'd rather have me sit on my ass for four weeks than take advantage of my skill. Heck, if you let me fly, we'd probably be done with this in four weeks!"

"Fox, relax," Pepper admonished, although his voice still had the warmth of a father trying to convince a wayward son. "I get you're anxious. I get that a lot has happened. Just breathe deeply, and take an hour to think about what I've said. I think you'll find it's more logical than it seems. Can you do at least that much for me?"

There was a moment of silence while the vulpine considered his options, a particularly attractive one being just walking out, heading down to the docking bay, and demanding a transport to his Great Fox. But somehow, even with his emotions running high, he still couldn't bring himself to commit such an act of insubordination. The beast against authority just didn't exist inside him. So he kept up his argument.

"No, we're not done here yet. I think you've forgotten about my team. So what if I get sick? They'd help me get back to the ground easily. And somehow, I highly doubt our surface bases are so far apart that I can't reach them in fifteen minutes of hyperdrive. Plus, I've already spoken with Falco, and something tells me things are starting to not go as planned. You're gonna need me, sir, just admit it."

Perhaps Fox's newfound anger and hubris stemmed not from the inability to fly itself, but the feeling of being denied something he felt he had a right to. Like waiting in line for hours and hours to purchase concert tickets, only to have the cashier put up the "Sold Out" sign right as you approach the counter, but much, much more extreme.

If Fox was the buyer, than Pepper was the cashier who has to stand there and get personally blamed for something out of his control. But, unlike the previous metaphor, at least there was only one person shouting at him rather than a thousand.

"Look, Fox. It's under control. We're fine. And I'm not wasting your talent, I'm preserving it. If you go up there and get sick, you've basically shot yourself down."

"And if I don't go up there, you've shot yourself in the foot."

Pepper brought up a paw and squeezed his temples. There was no negotiating with this vulpine, it seemed. Years of knowing Falco had taught him everything he needed to know about persuasion, just out of sheer necessity. And now his skills in that field were showing, too.

"You know what? Fine. Go. But if you so much as burp in that cockpit, you're coming back down, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Fox said, unsmiling.

"Don't think you can get away with it, either. I'm telling your team that order, too. Maybe they'll buy you five minutes."

Fox wanted to roll his eyes, but he was too close to success to throw it away now. Yet the clever old hound was turning his team, his own team, into a surveillance system! It was just so childish. The vulpine wasn't a kit anymore, he could bloody well take care of himself!

But he had to settle for nodding in understanding.

"Now go to the hanger, get yourself a transport, and get the hell out of my sight."

He did so, reflecting that a good compromise leaves everybody mad.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Offutt AFB

"Aw, man, they're beauts," Byron admired, almost orgasmically. For the second time in the day, it was decidedly not shameful to agree with him.

It was 13:30. Lieutenant Colonel Erick Josefson had just successfully unlocked the restricted access hangars, and was now busily trying to get everyone inside and the door shut, lest another patrol squad shows up unscheduled. The awe was not undeserved, however; the sleek, black F/S-217s were the coolest looking sci-fi-esque war machines any of them had ever seen.

Their shape took much of its inspiration from the old Soviet MiG-21s, right down to the delta-wing configuration and the pencil shaped fuselage. The fifty years of progress also showed, the biggest new feature being the replacement of the single turbojet engine with two smaller, lighter, more fuel-efficient models blended into the wings. The engines were capable of swiveling to allow take-off and landing on much shorter runways—or indeed, no runway at all. And in fact, that's how the squad found them, with the engines swiveled ninety degrees, looking like two miniature smokestacks.

There was one last nice touch, too; someone had painted the squad logo onto the vertical stabilizers.

"My God, is it wrong to be in love with an airplane?" Someone (probably Soren, thanks to that cockney accent running almost imperceptibly under the surface) joked to his buddy.

"It'd be wrong if you weren't."

The hanger door behind them closed resoundingly, leaving them in pitch darkness for the half-second it took for the proper lights to come on. Normally, such lights tended to bleach the color out of anything they touched, but this time they seemed to be having the opposite effect. Josefson simply breathed, taking it all in.

He walked slowly between his machines and his men, deciding there was no harm in allowing the squad to ogle their new stuff for a few minutes. They were like mewling little kids on Christmas morning, and hey, that was everyone's favorite time of year, right?

New goal for self, Erick. Keep everyone alive until at least Christmas.

The squad leader was probably delusional to think that would happen, especially with everyone so excited to go to war in jets they've never even seen before. But you can't reach a goal you never set.

Plus, MacAllen had left another surprise for them; it was almost a saving grace. On the back wall was an illuminated chalkboard with the most concise and efficient instructions for fighter jet operation Josefson had ever seen. When he reached it and read it through, he was floored. The detail, and yet the simplicity; the instructions were almost a work of art. Boy, did he never think he'd be overjoyed to see a chalkboard!

That joy disappeared quickly, though. His face fell faster than that of an arrogant prick getting his comeuppance. At the bottom of the instructions lay a familiar phrase:

Use them well. –MacAllen

Indeed they would. But the mystery ate at his brain like a parasite: how much had MacAllen known?

/\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Patrol Route South

"Base to Husky and Beta, Base to Husky and Beta, this is an urgent message." The radio suddenly came to life, and the head of a communications officer suddenly joined Caleb in his cockpit. "Be advised that HYRADAR shows a group of sixteen unauthorized aircraft, probably hostile, thirty miles to your north-north-east. Repeat, HYRADAR shows a group of sixteen unauthorized aircraft, position three-zero miles, bearing zero-one-nine. Designate probable hostile group as Raid One. Your weapons are free. Over."

Whaddaya know. Excitement. Just what I friggin' need, Caleb thought to himself. Then, on his own HYRADAR screen, the sixteen blips appeared right where Base said they were. Superimposed over these blips were a small circled marked "Raid 1" and, slightly later, a velocity vector.

"Base, this is Husky One. Can you confirm hostile?" Caleb asked. After all of that Eppley drama, the last thing he wanted was to kill more people who didn't deserve it. Hadn't he done enough of that already? Besides, he wasn't even sure he wanted to kill hostile humans. They certainly had every right to be angry.

One thing was certain. Every passenger jet destroyed that day was another addition to a long list of regrets.

"Husky One, not at this time. A drone is on its way." A different head appeared, the head of someone tasked with speaking one-to-one, instead of sending group messages. "Take no chances."

"Base, can you confirm this velocity vector then? It shows that Raid One isn't trying to catch up to us." That was true. It seemed to be taking pains to merely follow Caleb's squad, rather than engage them.

"Affirmative, Husky One. That vector is accurate. HYRADAR switched to active as soon as Raid One appeared."

That was rare. Active HYRADAR, as opposed to passive, was extremely accurate and powerful, able to correctly pinpoint an aircraft's position and speed up to the thousandth decimal place at ranges of up to 350 miles, at the cost of extreme power usage. During testing, Caleb had heard, turning on active mode had fried power grids over and over again, even after linking several together in order to maximize power output. Therefore, it was rarely ever activated, even on sparsely populated planets like Katina. Given the technological lag on this planet Earth, the husky was surprised that active HYRADAR was even functional.

It also showed Caleb just how seriously the commanders were taking the "missing base" debacle. Among regular pilots and soldiers at Eppley, it had taken on an almost mythical quality, thanks to the total lack of activity in this area. The Husky Squadron leader, however, had been keeping his mind open. And now, it seemed that Raid One was proof of its existence.

"Husky One, Base recommends rendezvousing with Beta early and laying a trap. We think they're trying to follow you back to us."

"Copy that, Base, we're on it."

The holographic head disappeared.

"Beta One, this is Husky One, do you copy?"

"Affirmative, Husky One. Sounds like you've got a plan?"

"Indeed. Base thinks those ships back there are trying to follow us back to Eppley. I want you to head towards our position immediately. We'll head towards yours and once we meet up, we'll wait and engage if necessary. Over."

"Sounds good. See you soon. Out."

If that sounded cold, that's because it was. But Caleb was nowhere near the point where he'd risk his life for some kind of anti-war protest. He would live with his regrets, just like everyone else. After all, his original anti-war sentiments had only existed because of who was becoming yet another addition to that regret list, Alyssa. And since Invasion Day, that relationship had gone decidedly south. It all revolved around what Caleb had dubbed in his mind as "the switch."

It was what she had and he didn't. Some kind of ability to turn off one's conscience, turn off one's morals, and just do the unthinkable. While Caleb was left to reflect, brood, and loathe himself and his role in killing people who didn't deserve it, she could just flip that switch, do the deed, and be perfectly fine the next day. That was a rift in understanding that he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to bridge.

Once their patrol shift was over, he'd probably end it between them. Or maybe he'd sleep on it (if he slept at all; last night's dreams had just been the corpse confetti scene on repeat). He wasn't sure yet. At the moment, though, all this drama was but a distraction. There were more pressing matters now.

"Husky Squad, change course to two-seven-five. We're gonna meet up with Beta Squad and wait for Raid One," Caleb announced. Seven replies came back: four "rogers", two "affirmatives", and one "OK" from Alyssa. Big surprise.

Nevertheless, the intent was the same. Go from being outnumbered to being an even match. The eight ships turned.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\

Finally, the tables were turning. Previously, another group of eight planes had held the upper hand, constantly flying over for over twenty-four hours now and keeping them scared and hidden like mice avoiding snakes. But now, in the skies, the advantage was theirs. They were out of sight range, but they were in missile range, and the F/S-217 radars worked beautifully.

It was, and would be, the perfect ambush.

"Everyone's missiles green?" Josefson asked. Fifteen "rogers" came back. Everything was armed and ready.

Yet, he waited a moment. On the surface, it was because their targets were taking a sharp westward turn, and letting them finish would produce more kills. But on the inside, he wanted to make sure the fears he had had out on the road back to their little bunker were really, truly unfounded. Just wanting to make sure, over and over again, that there was no enemy stealth squad flying about, no hidden AA guns in the blown-out houses, nothing ready to take them out when they were so close. And since that was so, he could savor it. It was cliché, but he was an American soldier, and he was fighting for all the freedom he could reclaim.

"In that case, Thunderbirds, set solution and fire!"

Everyone's jets clunked as first sixteen, then thirty-two missiles detached from their host planes, fired their own engines, and barreled away to the southwest. Josefson watched as the bright pinpricks of combustion disappeared into the nothingness of the distance. Then, he switched his gaze to the radar. In a few moments, he was confident, there would be fewer plane sized blips on his screen.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\

Several alerts went off at once inside every single Husky Squadron cockpit, all fighting to be the loudest to shout "Incoming Projectiles!" As obnoxious as Alyssa found it, they weren't lying. Their live HYRADAR feeds proved that, showing thirty-two rapidly accelerating chevrons. Before her soon-to-be ex started yelling commands for evasive maneuvers, though, it went through her subconscious that something wasn't quite right.

"Huskies, scatter!" There it was. Their formation exploded like a firework shortly after.

Surprisingly, and perhaps luckily, Alyssa never got a missile lock warning. She engaged in aforementioned evasive maneuvers, but they became rather half-hearted as a result.

It soon dawned on her that no one else got a warning, either. There were planes flying in every direction but east, but once the initial wave of panic washed over everyone, the evasiveness of the maneuvers disappeared rapidly. Alyssa's consciousness didn't like such a calm attitude in the face of missiles, warning or not, but beneath the surface ran her confident intuition.

And it was vindicated. Having turned towards the north, she simply had to look to her right to find the thirty-two missiles flying not towards them, but due south away from them. Off they went, seemingly not targeting anything, just out for a nice missile stroll above the riverbank, contrails following close behind.

"What the hell?" she spoke over the squad's communication channel. "Where are they going?"

"I couldn't tell you," Caleb replied, obviously as dumbstruck as she was. "I…uh…I guess we regroup and go back to the original plan, then. Raid One confirmed hostile, too, but…perhaps not so threatening."

Ain't that the truth, Alyssa chuckled to herself as she followed her ex's orders.

/\\\\\\\\\\\

That's right, Parker thought excitedly, eyes glued to his radar. Forward, forward…wait…no, stop going forward! What are you bastards doing? At the top right of the screen lay the blips of the enemies, and towards the middle was the imaginary southerly line that the missiles followed, followed, and followed. And they kept following. Right on out to infinity, it seemed. Like they had all spontaneously developed Alzheimer's and subsequently forgotten what the hell they were supposed to be doing.

"What the fuck?!" Roderick exclaimed over the squad communication channel. "Where the hell are they going?"

His entirely justified questions received no responses. Thirty-two dud missiles. What were the odds? This realization sunk into each of them as slowly and as surely as a glacier inches forward.

It was silent for a while.

"…So…what do we do now?" Byron sheepishly asked. Had the squad members been gathered around a table, they would have simply looked around at each other speechlessly.

"Well, we've got thirty-two more. Infrared targeting instead of radar-based targeting. Maybe they could do something," Parker mentioned. They all figured at this point that the size of that "maybe" could put the entire North American continent in shadow, but what the hell, right? It's not like anything they did now could make them any more revealed than they already were.

"Eh, why not? Arm your remaining missiles," Josefson ordered, leaning back in his seat. If anything, he had found the sudden panic of the enemy ships quite funny, especially when that terror became unfounded. He didn't care for his cynical side, but it showed its face every now and again.

Fifteen "done"s came back in varying tones of voice.

"Set solution and fire."

Once again came the symphony of clunks and wooshes signaling properly fired missiles. All they wanted was to see those missiles turn. A hit would be nice, but for God's sake, just let them turn in the enemy's general direction!

/\\\\\\\\\\\\

Less than two minutes later, everyone's ears were blasted again within Husky Squadron, but this time there was much trepidation. No one did anything without Caleb's word, and Caleb wasn't sure he'd need to give it. After all, evasive maneuvers, while certainly necessary in the right situations, ate up precious fuel and dissolved formations into panicked conglomerates that took precious time to regroup; these things had been impressed upon him by both his flight instructors and recent personal experience.

The husky was gambling lives against some gallons of fuel and perhaps ten seconds of time; he wasn't attempting to get around that. But as he watched the thirty-two new blips fly in a straight line pointed slightly more west than the first line, Caleb felt the odds were in his favor. Maybe once again, they'd continue flying completely straight, oblivious to their purpose of destruction.

Hesitation. Sweet, bitter hesitation.

It paid off. Thirty-two more explosives, made powerless by sailing into the deep blue. Caleb smiled and gripped his controls that much tighter. It was a rush, alright, watching Death pass you by. But they weren't done with him yet.

/\\\\\\\\\\\

"Are you shitting me?! Who programmed these missiles, third graders?!" Roderick exclaimed furiously, the sound of banging making it through the comms as his fist pounded the glass.

They were also running short on time. Before long the human's and the Cornerian's ships would be in visual range of each other, and only God knows what kind of hell that situation might unleash.

"Ugh, I can't believe this. 'Use them well'…shit, how can we use what doesn't even work?" Parker scoffed, shaking his head, tempers flaring all across the squadron.

Ice formed in Josefson's gut as a terrible indecision plagued him. It was just as he had feared. Now they knew. Those aliens would follow their squad back to base and obliterate the entire place. Turn them into nothing but splatters of blood staining the Offutt Crater. And if they pressed on, it was a complete crapshoot. Sure, the Thunderbirds had the numbers advantage, but they might well all die anyway, shot down by superior tech that they couldn't even fathom.

I wanted to come back to work. Guess I got my wish, he thought cynically, his head shaking as well, foot twitching.

Just seconds of agitated silence went by, though it felt like hours upon hours. Then, Roderick spoke up again. "…These things got guns, right, sir?" The voice…dark and monotone.

Josefson almost feared answering. That was primal, that voice. Primal, full of bloodlust. Chilled him even further, not just his guts this time, but all the way to the bone. If he affirmed Roderick…what would stop that man from hitting his afterburner and plowing straight to doom. And yet…something nagged him. They couldn't just sit there, either.

Better to be a target that's not easy to hit, Byron had said. Never had Josefson thought he'd be looking to that kid's words for resolve. But that kid, the little fuck who had an obsession with wanting to be called Wolf, well…guess it was time to hunt.

"…Indeed they do," came the confirmation. Josefson looked to his left, looked at his squadmate's planes, then to his right to do the same.

"Then…it's been an honor serving with you all," Roderick muttered back, his grip tightening on the throttle.

"Roderick, wait…" Josefson interjected as quick as he could. The feeling of everyone's eyes on him only made his confidence spike. "We go together…on my count."

Several others agreed with a determined grunt. Those who made no noise still nodded, even if no one could see them.

"Guns blazing," Parker added.

Josefson, he…he smiled at this. "Three…"-fingers drumming against the throttle-"Two…"-thumb hovering just over the fire button.

The sunlight reflected off their eyes.

"One." They all said. Sixteen ships rocketed southward.

/\\\\\\\\\\\

"What are they doing now?" Ruslan wondered after a moment, the second set of missiles harmlessly passing by just a few seconds earlier. Now Raid One was just sitting there, holding course. Still headed into their trap, sure…and that's what made everyone so tense.

Both missile volleys passing like that…Husky Eight knew the human's tech was bad, but surely it wasn't THAT bad, right? No right-minded missile would just fly straight like that…but could sixty-four missiles all simultaneously malfunction, either?

"I dunno…but nobody dare relax…" Caleb spoke quietly, nervous sweat forming atop his forehead.

Beta squadron was only thirty seconds away. If nothing changed, they would beat Raid One by a slim ten seconds. Just enough time.

Husky squadron could see the specks on the horizon now.

"Remember…weapons free…" Alyssa muttered.

Hell broke loose.