“Buzzard 6, are you seeing the same thing? Is this some type of trick?”
Nearly 30 targets clustered together in one grand wedge formation ahead. Sure, Simons’ squadron was outnumbered three to one, but in the air, numbers don’t mean shit. Aerial combat is all about experience and technology. From their Intel, Sacramento was scrapping the bottom of the barrel for new pilots and struggling to get mothballed aircraft flightworthy again. Not likely he’d find a worthy foe in the bunch.
Simons chuckled sadistically. “The rebels don’t have enough veteran pilots left. Let’s give them a hand and teach these trainees a lesson.”
The last six months had been a grueling war of attrition in the sky… and the URA just didn’t have as many veteran crewmembers to begin with as the USA. Brutal, but simple arithmetic. Simons didn’t care that his computer couldn’t identify the strange planes. All he cared about were the easy kills. He snapped on his radio and tried to force down his giddiness.
“Get ready, Buzzards. Double check that no one’s targeting the same bandit and then let them have it. Just one AMRAAM each should do the trick. Let’s save the long-range ordinance in case the bastards have some tricks up their sleeves. We’ll close and mop up any survivors with Sidewinders. Happy hunting!”
Leading by example, Simons flipped over his arming knob and squirted off a half-million dollar missile. He was only a split-second ahead of his squadron. Simons beamed with pride as nearly three dozen other missiles poured out of his flight within seconds. Thirty seconds later, the first, and still unidentified, enemy radar contact blinked out of existence. Then another.
None attempted to maneuver.
“This is Buzzard 6. These guys are too stupid for even students. I think they’re drones, over.”
His wingman gave a rebel yell. “Who cares? Just enjoy the turkey shoot!”
Static filled Simons’ tiny digital display. These weird electronic bugs always popped up at the worst possible time. He reached for the reset button, but froze.
The lines moved at the same time his ECM warning bulb flashed. Hundreds of text boxes tagged all the bits of static, spamming his monitor. He’d never seen so many missiles in his life.
“Hit the deck, Buzzards!”
Simons shoved his stick down and lit the afterburners, saving his chaff and flares for the last minute. His F/A-18 plunged fast enough to escape the engagement envelope of all six AMRAAM’s targeting him.
He wasn’t so lucky with the next six.
With no altitude left to maneuver, he shaved enough speed to drop a smidgen below the sound barrier. He reached between his legs, praying the rest of his unit had better luck.
“Buzzard 6: I’m punching out!”
As the cockpit canopy sheared off and God punted him heavenward, Simons blacked out. He came back around dangling in a parachute, barely 1,000 feet above the woods.
Simons ignored the trees rushing towards him and scanned the night sky with his good eye. He must have popped a blood vessel in the other one. Try as he might, there wasn’t a sign of his foes other than the buzzing of propellers in the air.
His own unit was easy enough to locate. Hard to miss a dozen bonfires in the cloudless night.
“Son of a bitch.”
Just before he hit the ground, Simons caught sight of several small shadows circling above.
“Fucking drones!”
Five of the rebel’s propeller driven drones survived. Which was five more of the dirt-cheap missile platforms than expected. With barely 10 % of their missiles striking targets, they weren’t the most powerful combat platform.
They were just the cheapest.
For a measly five million dollars’ worth of drones and ordinance, sacrificing ten of the drones to bag a single $50 million fighter, and its irreplaceable pilot, gave the URA a clear victory. Sowing chaos and wreaking havoc on US air defenses just minutes before the real airstrikes hit was icing on the cake.
Even modern war is still a dollars and cents game.
Major General Banks stormed into the Louisiana sector joint headquarters, ready to tear his staff a new asshole. For the last half hour, no one could fill him in on just what the hell was going on. His rage drained when he caught sight of the pandemonium in his command center. Someone needed to take charge.
“Hey! At ease! Everyone stop what you’re doing, take three deep breaths, and then get back to work. This isn’t our first rodeo. You’re all professionals. Now act like it!”
In the compact underground command post, his thunder clapping voice shut everyone up. The shock did the trick. Refocused, his staff lost a little of their edge. Widespread panic mellowed into simple unease. Good enough. Unfortunately, the battle outside couldn’t be tamed as easily.
“So how big is the offensive, XO?”
His deputy general puffed out his cheeks. “Hard to say, sir. The rebels are advancing from the Gulf to central Arkansas. We’re facing at least three divisions, perhaps as many as six, in our sector alone.”
General Banks flagged over his air force liaison officer. Those weren’t such bad odds on paper, but this was no table exercise. Sure, he had two mechanized infantry divisions under his direct control and could call in two more within 24 hours, but numbers weren’t the real problem. His forces, scattered in little units over half the state, simply were in no position to stop the rebel steamroller.
“All right, where’s the forward edge of the battle area?”
His executive officer couldn’t keep his frustration out of his voice. “Perhaps a better question is what’s not on the forward edge.”
Before his boss could say a word, the XO brought up the threat overlay on the digital wall screen. The normally static redlines didn’t crawl east; they leapfrogged in huge spurts.
“Our first contact with the enemy was when they attacked the northern perimeter right here in Shreveport. The rebel advance parties had the city nearly surrounded before we even knew they breached the border.”
He paused and shook his head as a large blue square blinked out. Two red pincers met up in its place. “Correction, they now have us cut completely off.”
General Banks clasped his hands behind his back, so no one could see them shake. “Get a grip. The situation must be just as chaotic for them as well. We aren’t up against all knowing beings here. The rebel general and his staff are trying to orchestrate this dance while bouncing around the back of a moving vehicle and staring at tiny computer screens. Now, their forces are moving too fast, which means they’re getting careless. We need to stay calm, concentrate our resources and wait to pounce on their next mistake.”
He rotated to the glum Air Force officer. “Colonel, I need everything you have and then some. We must buy some time. Once we get the last of our troops out of the way, I plan to designate the I-49 and I-20 corridors as Free Fire Areas. You plaster anything that moves in there, no questions asked. Clear?”
The Air Force colonel stuck out her hands. “General, we’re working that issue, but it’s going to be a while before we reestablish air superiority.”
Bremer studied his casualty reports. “We don’t need complete control of the air; I just need you to drop some bombs ASAP.”
“Sir, you don’t seem to understand. The rebels are flooding the sky with their cheap air-to-air combat drones. These things are bleeding us dry. We can’t spare much for close air support until we neutralize their airfields. On the plus side, these UAV’s have short legs. With such limited range, there are only twenty rebel-controlled airfields close enough to launch from. Give us 24 hours to finish smashing those bases and then we can focus on relieving your forces.”