There were mutterings that the air forces should, by right, have come from a European country. However, since the “EU” force was composed primarily of American and British ground forces, had an American commander and was primarily funded by the United States, having an aircraft that could electronically interact with the American and British forces was paramount. The British Tornado was the only “European” system that met the requirements, European avionics being at least two generations behind the U.S. The F-16 was a far superior air-to-air fighter and a tad more capable at ground attack.
Thus the assignment of an American colonel to instruct and, in this case, command, a “European” squadron made perfect sense, at least to NATO.
As soon as the report came that the attack stream was headed for Europe, all the remaining seventy-two F-16s in the multinational fighter wing were called to action. The squadron of multilingual and multinational fighter pilots were to bring support from the northwest toward the alien tubule that looked as if it would encompass Paris.
Lieutenant Colonel Ridley decided that he couldn’t leave the one F-16 that he had been training and instructing from on the ground. That just would not do. And besides that, this might be the best chance to gather intel on the threat that the U.S. would have. Matt hoped he could live long enough to get the intel home.
Rumors were coming in that multiple French Mirage squadrons had been lost on the southeastern front and the Falcons were beyond nervous. Very few of the European air forces had been as blooded as the Americans and Brits. Americans and Brits had maintained the Iraqi No-Fly Zone in the face of Saddam’s ground-to-air missiles, had carried the brunt of the battle in Bosnia and had operated against the Iraqi air-defense in Operation Iraqi Freedom. Ridley, alone, had more total “combat stick” time than the entire French air force. And the Belgians and Germans on the mission totaled exactly zero combat stick. Matt had decided early on that his primary mission was to try to keep them calm. Sangfroid. Just another training exercise. Right.
“Okay boys, just like we been practicing. We’re a gonna go in low at high Mach, pull up through those alien bastards to slow us down to firing speeds and let loose hell on them.” Lieutenant Colonel Ridley nodded at his wingman and keyed in his weapons code.
Ridley adjusted the radar controls and set the system on wide target search.
“That’s odd, there’s no AWACS data,” he muttered to himself.
“Bull, I’ve got multiple bogies in-bound on us from the south, Mach Three Dot Five, Angels fourteen!” Belgian Flight-Lieutenant Rene “Low-Boy” Lejeune said over the radio in very good English. Rene had done well in training on the plane and had the instincts of a good fighter pilot. He kept good wing, for that matter. But he got a tad excited over the radio. Belgians hadn’t figured out the “phlegmatic” approach. Ridley looked over and could see his wingman waving at him and pointing downward and to the south.
“Roger that, Rene,” Ridley replied laconically. “Let’s take it to ’em boys. Follow me through.”
Ridley eased his stick all the way forward and throttled up the F16. As the g-forces pushed him back into his seat his stomach tightened and the airbags around his thighs slightly inflated.
“Radar contact shows multiple bogie, vector one-one-seven, Angels fourteen. Careful, the system is showing them as vampires. Visual range…” the lieutenant colonel tried to keep both eyes on the radar and both eyes on the sky. That was a trick that most humans failed and at which fighter pilots excelled.
“Contact, contact,” a calm, French accented voice said. “Visual, two o’clock, low.”
“Zehn Uhr!” a slightly more excited German voice said hastily.
“TWELVE!”
The two formations were closing at a combined rate of nearly four thousand miles per hour. One second there was only a shiny, slightly gray cloud. The cloud, like coming closer to a pointillist painting, suddenly became billions of dots and then the dots became a cloudy sky filled with meter long boomerangs that… were… freaking…
Ridley began yanking and jerking the joystick control at his side in a desperate attempt to weave in and out of the cloud of alien probes. The F-16 was in a supersonic dive at the edge of its operational capabilities, but the alien metal boomerangs zipped up effortlessly into the squadron and began tearing the manmade vehicles to shreds. Ridley watched as one of the boomerangs passed right through the empennage of the F-16 flown by Luftwaffe Captain Heinz Zwack, sacrificing itself to destroy the fighter. Two more exploding Falcons was all it took to tell him this was not a survivable tactic.
“Full throttle and push through, push through!” he yelled.
“Bull, we must slow to firing speeds!” Rene exclaimed.
