September 30
14:45 Hours
Petrichor Air Force Base – Crew Lounge
The lounge was deceptively calm, the kind of quiet that came right before the call to scramble. The low hum of an air conditioner, the muffled chatter of ground crews outside, and the occasional metallic thud of tools from the hangar bled faintly into the room. It was a fragile peace, one all of them knew wouldn't last.
Emilie and Mona sat shoulder to shoulder on the faded couch, helmets placed carefully on the table in front of them, visors glinting under the fluorescent lights. Emilie idly ran a finger along the scuffed edge of her oxygen mask while Mona tapped a quiet rhythm against her knee, eyes distant but alert.
Teppei leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, his gaze wandering across the apron where maintenance crews busied themselves around the newly assigned Tomcats. The big swing-wing fighters looked alien compared to the F-5s they had cut their teeth on—larger, heavier, but undeniably more lethal. Ayaka stood beside him, hands neatly clasped behind her back, eyes fixed skyward. She watched the clouds drift lazily overhead, as if divining what kind of day the skies were preparing for them.
Teppei broke the silence first. He glanced over his shoulder toward Emilie.
"Hey, Emilie. What do you make of the Tomcats so far?"
Emilie tilted her head, considering, before she gave a measured nod.
"They're beasts. Loads of power, especially in the climb. They're solid at low speeds too, which is rare for a jet this size. And the swing-wings? Gives you flexibility mid-flight. You can dogfight if you've got the hands for it, and still haul ordnance on a strike package. It's a true multi-role bird—if you respect it."
Mona leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her brow furrowing slightly.
"You mentioned something earlier… about the TF30 engines?"
At that, Emilie's expression shifted—just a subtle hardening of her jaw. She gave a small nod, almost grudging.
"Yeah. The TF30s are the weak link. Always have been. That's why most F-14As eventually got replaced by Bs—they dropped in the GE F110s, far more reliable. But we're flying the A-models. And the TF30s?" She gave a humorless chuckle. "They're notorious for compressor stalls, especially if you pull too hard at high angles of attack. Push the bird wrong, and one side flames out. Then you're riding a brick with wings."
Teppei raised an eyebrow. "You mean… like what happened to Leah, right? First Tomcat pilot in Teyvat?"
Silence followed for a beat. Emilie's eyes narrowed slightly, her tone dropping into something colder.
"Yeah. Leah. Leah Stahlschmidt. First female naval aviator from Mondstadt. She flew with the MDC Vanessa, back when that carrier group was still running A-model Tomcats exclusively. She was on final approach when her left engine stalled. She tried to recover—throttled the good engine to compensate. But the TF30 doesn't forgive mistakes. The asymmetric thrust rolled her bird hard left, uncontrollable. She went in short of the deck. Fireball. Her RIO punched out and lived."
Ayaka finally spoke, her voice soft but steady, as if reciting from memory.
"We studied that case at flight school. Some of the reports said she pushed the surviving engine straight to full throttle after the stall. That yaw and roll moment sealed it. At that altitude? No chance." She sighed, her eyes lowering briefly. "The press fallout was brutal. All the usual garbage. 'Women shouldn't be in combat cockpits'—as if the engine failure cared about gender."
Emilie nodded grimly. "Exactly. Board of inquiry cleared her. Official finding pinned the blame where it belonged—on the TF30s. Didn't matter who was flying. Once one of those engines stalls and you don't catch it instantly, the aircraft will fight you every inch until it smashes into the ground. No one walks away from that unless they're already high enough to eject."
Teppei blinked, scratching the back of his head. "Wait, but… we're flying F-14As right now, aren't we?"
"Yeah," Emilie confirmed, calm but sharp. "Which means you respect the bird, Herring. No cowboy bullshit. Stay smooth, coordinated inputs only. Don't throw it into sudden high-alpha maneuvers unless you've got no other choice. You can fly the A-model just fine—but only if you remember that the TF30's waiting to kill you if you get sloppy."
The room went quiet again, tension settling like an unseen weight. The reality of their new aircraft wasn't lost on any of them.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment. The door cracked open and a crew chief stepped in, clipboard under one arm, headset still hanging from his neck. His tone was brisk, businesslike.
"Wolfsbane Squadron. Briefing room. You've got a new mission."
Emilie was already on her feet, helmet in hand, eyes steady.
"Wilco."
Mona stood with her, tightening her gloves. Teppei pushed off the wall, rolling his shoulders, while Ayaka stepped away from the window with quiet poise.
The lounge, once a place of calm, now felt charged with anticipation. Downtime was over. The skies were calling again.
The door sighed shut behind them. The briefing room smelled of stale coffee and the metallic tang of marker ink; the fluorescent lights hummed with low insistence. At the front, Captain Maksim — the base commander, all lines and shoulders — was already waiting, one brow raised, finger tapping impatiently against his forearm.
"'Bout damn time you four showed up…" he grunted, dry as gravel.
Wolfsbane took their seats. Helmets landed with soft thuds at their feet. The big wall display flickered to life and painted the room in cold blues and tactical greens: a detailed map of the Bishui Straits, plotted with bathymetry, shipping lanes, and range rings. Maksim's silhouette moved across it like a shadow as he stepped forward.
"You're going to want to listen to this one carefully," he said without ceremony. He let the room settle, then picked up where he left off. "One of Natlan's biggest screw-ups so far? They haven't sunk a single one of our carriers. Today, we're going to keep that streak alive."
He jabbed a finger at three bright, marching icons sliding along the border between Mondstadt and Liyue. The map zoomed in to show the task force — three capital carriers transiting in formation: Remus, Egeria, and the Arkhe. Little vectors indicated heading, speed, and projected track through the narrows.
"Your mission is simple in concept: top cover." Maksim's voice tightened. "You will escort this task force while they transit the Bishui Straits and proceed toward the Dornman Straits. Dornman is critical — that's where we'll stage the next counterstrike and link up with our Mondstadt–Liyue allies. Lose those carriers, and we lose the strike package. Simple as that."
He toggled overlays on the display: weapon engagement zones, CAP bubbles, and AI-generated threat corridors. Red blips marched along the Natlan side of the border — probable launch points and suspected airfields. A column of small gray dots traced the likely path of enemy UAV swarms.
"They're in the Bishui now," Maksim said, voice flat. "Natlan knows the schedule. They know the route. Expect everything—fighters, bombers, reconnaissance drones, possibly missile salvos launched from those surface raiders we've been tracking. Electronic interference, jamming, decoys. Your job: make sure nothing reaches the carriers' decks. Protect the task force with your lives if you have to. I don't care how you do it — intercept, lure, jam, shoot UAVs down, destroy launch platforms — no one gets through you. Understood?"
Emilie felt the pig-headed weight of the order settle into her chest the way gravity settles into an aircraft's wings during a hard pull. The four of them answered at once, short, precise, the way pilots do when the stakes are tangible:
"Wilco."
Maksim didn't soften. He walked them through logistics with the economy of a man used to hard choices. "Sortie time is immediate. Fuel loads: standard CAP fuel with a single external tank—jettison permitted if engagement goes hot. Weapons: standard air-to-air loadout — Phoenix if available, otherwise a mix of AIMs and gun. Ayaka, you'll fly with reduced ordinance for better endurance. Teppei, you're on high-energy intercepts. Mona — point defense and radar support. Emilie — you lead the overwatch leg. Callsigns and numbers stay the same; tactics will be updated on the fly via Thunderspike."
He paused, letting the technicals hang for a breath, then pointed out the fine print that makes or breaks missions: search-and-rescue contingencies, rules of engagement, and the political red tape.
"No deck strikes unless authorized. If a carrier goes down, salvage and survivors become priority one. And—this is official—no unnecessary engagements inside sovereign territorial waters unless the target is actively engaging the task force. We keep this surgical and tight. Clear?"
Heads nodded, faces taut. The room's low hum of electronics seemed suddenly louder.
"Good." Maksim shut the display off with a sharp click, the tactical map dissolving into the dim room light. He fixed them with a look that was less inspection than a challenge. "You're dismissed. Scramble immediately. Rendezvous with the task force on vector two-two-zero at +0:25. Godspeed."
They rose as a single, practiced unit—helmets, a quick equipment check, the shuffle of boots. Outside the door the afternoon light was thin and charged; the sky over Petrichor had that hard, metallic hue that means aircraft and artillery are about to paint it. For Wolfsbane, the Tomcats would be taking their first real test in combat: not just missiles and dogfights but the delicate job of escorting three floating cities through a corridor where every mistake would be amplified.
Downtime, brief as it had been, ended here. The lounge couches, the jokes, the morning coffee — they receded into the background like a blue line on a map. The sound of the hangar doors mocked them, opening again to a sky already crowded with threat and duty.
Flightline – Petrichor AFB
The heat shimmered over the tarmac, waves of distortion rising from the sun-baked concrete as Wolfsbane Squadron strode toward their aircraft. The metallic scent of jet fuel mixed with hydraulic fluid and burnt oil hung heavy in the air, the familiar smell of warplanes preparing to hunt. Ground crews hustled around the Tomcats in a precise ballet—fuel lines coiled away, arming crews securing Sidewinders, Sparrows, and Phoenixes under pylons, chocks slammed in place to keep the jets steady until their pilots were ready to ride.
Teppei, practically bouncing with each step, broke the silence.
"Finally! A proper mission. Straightforward too!" His grin stretched ear to ear, the kind of optimism that usually cursed a flight.
Emilie shot him a sharp look, halfway between amusement and warning.
"Don't jinx it. Simple escort missions go south all the time. 'Straightforward' is usually the first word you hear before someone eats a missile."
Teppei just waved dismissively. "Come on, all we gotta do is fly cover until the carriers hit the Dornman Straits, then it's mission complete. Easy money!"
Mona scoffed, her voice edged with sarcasm. "You ever heard of a mission staying simple? I haven't."
Ayaka's tone was calmer, but she kept her eyes forward. "We're more prepared now. We have better aircraft, better training, and we've flown together long enough to know each other's strengths. That matters."
Emilie allowed herself a faint smirk. "Yeah… we've come a long way since those Tigers. Let's keep it together."
They reached their jets, a line of F-14As glinting under the afternoon sun. Emilie approached her bird at the front, tail code and squadron markings freshly painted, the fuselage bristling with a full combat loadout. She climbed the ladder, helmet tucked under her arm, and slid into the cockpit. The familiar snugness wrapped around her as she pulled the harness across her chest and locked it down with a firm click.
Her hands moved by muscle memory, eyes sweeping over rows of analog gauges and switches. She tapped the hydraulic pressure gauge—needle low.
"Figures… manual pump time."
She reached down to the hand pump at her left thigh, working it steadily. Pull, push, pull, push. The needle crept upward until it finally nestled in the green. Satisfied, she reached for the canopy control.
A hiss of pneumatics, then a clunk as the canopy sealed shut. The outside noise dulled instantly, the world reduced to the muted thrum of systems spooling to life. Emilie gave the crew chief standing by her left wing a thumbs-up.
He returned it, exaggerated for clarity, then motioned with the spinning finger signal—start engines.
Emilie flipped the guarded starter switch for the right TF30. The whine built from a ghostly hum to a high-pitched scream as RPM climbed through 15, 18, 20 percent. She cracked the throttle to idle. A moment later the engine roared alive, exhaust nozzles flexing as the turbine stabilized at idle power.
She repeated for the left engine. Whine, throttle, roar. Twin TF30s now idled steady, gauges in the green. She checked fuel flow, EGTs, oil pressure—all within limits.
Outside, ground crew disconnected the power cart and air hose, dragging equipment clear. The chief gave a final exaggerated salute, signaling good to go. Emilie raised her hand in reply, sharp and crisp, then eased off the parking brake. The Tomcat rolled forward with a low growl, taxi light cutting across the taxiway.
One by one, Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka's F-14s came alive behind her, their engines thundering across the ramp. The four swept onto the taxiway in perfect line, wings still tucked at 20 degrees, canopies down, navigation lights winking in the sunlight.
Runway 27 – Petrichor AFB
The tower crackled through Emilie's headset.
"Wolfsbane Flight, cleared to taxi runway two-seven. Hold short for departing Hercules. Line up in sequence."
"Raven copies, Wolfsbane rolling," Emilie replied.
She led them past the control tower and onto the parallel taxiway. A lumbering C-130 accelerated ahead, climbing skyward, leaving the strip clear.
Emilie turned onto the centerline, brakes set. The runway stretched long and clear, a straight black arrow into the horizon. Her HUD symbology glowed green over the glare.
Tower again:
"Wolfsbane 1, you are cleared for immediate departure. Altitude restrictions canceled. Contact Bishui Control once airborne. Good hunting."
Emilie's voice was calm, clipped.
"Tower, Raven copies. Wolfsbane rolling."
She slammed the throttles forward through military power into afterburner. The TF30s howled, nozzles belching twin plumes of fire. The acceleration punched her into the seat, every rivet in the fuselage vibrating with the fury of full AB.
The airspeed needle shot up.
120… 130… 140… 150… 160 knots—
At 167 knots, Emilie eased the stick back. The nose came up smoothly, mains lifting free of the concrete. The Tomcat clawed skyward, wheels retracting with a metallic thunk.
"Raven airborne."
Mona followed, her jet leaping off the deck.
"Starseer airborne."
Teppei thundered down the runway, voice eager in comms.
"Herring airborne!"
Ayaka's voice came last, calm and composed.
"Sometsu airborne."
Four Tomcats formed up on climb, diamond pattern, afterburners tapering back to military thrust as they angled east. Contrails snaked from their wingtips as they climbed through cloud breaks, the afternoon sun flashing across their canopies.
The Bishui TACAN beacon pulsed on Emilie's HUD, guiding them out over the straits.
The sky ahead stretched wide, pale and empty. Too empty.
Emilie's gut tightened, instincts gnawing at her. She'd flown long enough to know what silence meant out here.
It wasn't peace. It was a setup.
Hours later…
The four F-14A Tomcats held a tight combat spread at one thousand feet, wings flexing under minor turbulence. Formation was crisp—Emilie in the lead, Mona right wing, Teppei left, Ayaka trailing slightly as the slot. Each pilot monitored their fuel, instruments, and radar screens, fingers lightly grazing throttle and stick, ready for the first sign of action.
Below, the Teyvat Navy carved a path through the Dornman Strait. Sixteen destroyers prowled in precise formation, their hulls slicing through choppy waters. Three carriers moved at the center: the Remus, Egeria, and the Arkhe, the latter gleaming as the flagship Ousia-class supercarrier. Their radar and SAM coverage created a protective dome, but Emilie knew better than to rely solely on surface defense.
Marine haze hung low, visibility limited to a few kilometers. The sun dipped beneath the horizon, streaking clouds with crimson and gold, painting the ocean with shadowed reflections.
Mona's calm voice crackled over the squad channel.
"Hey, how's everyone doing with fuel?"
Emilie checked her left console, scanning internal tanks and the drop tanks mounted under the wings.
"Green across the board. Plenty to hold station. No bingo concerns yet."
Ayaka's voice followed, measured and precise.
"Same. Both externals still half-full. We're good for a while."
Teppei leaned forward in his seat, relaxed but visibly excited.
"And what did I tell you? Nice and simple mission. No drama. Look at us—we're already at the Dornman Strait!"
The radio crackled, authoritative and crisp:
AWACS Thunderspike:
"All aircraft, be advised—you have reached the outer perimeter of potential enemy strike range. You are cleared to RTB."
A beat of silence. Then:
Thunderspike:
"Wolfsbane Squadron, maintain station above the carrier. Hold until the refueling tanker arrives on schedule."
Teppei spotted a Liyue-based squadron peeling off in the distance, banking northwest toward their home base.
"Hey! They're heading back already! Can we go too?!"
Thunderspike:
"Wolfsbane, I repeat—maintain position. Tanker inbound ETA five minutes. No deviation."
Teppei groaned audibly in the cockpit.
"Ugh… I swear, man…"
Emilie's eyes narrowed on the radar. Multiple fast blips suddenly appeared, bearing 015, low altitude, high closure rate.
"Contacts. Multiple unknowns—low altitude, fast movers. Radar's not spiking, but I don't like it," she said, voice calm but tense.
Mona scanned her own display, nodding sharply.
"Copy that. Same signatures on my scope. These aren't ghosts."
Teppei tapped his screen in frustration.
"Are our radars being spoofed or something? Because these things aren't showing up on AWACS!"
Ayaka's voice was firm, cutting through.
"No, same blips here. They're real."
Teppei slumped back, muttering.
"Seriously… why the hell didn't command warn us? Enemy aircraft outside projected strike range?"
Emilie tightened her grip on the stick, scanning visually for movement in the haze.
"Focus. Eyes sharp. Composure first. We'll assess once they get closer."
Ayaka added, crisp as ever.
"Rely on your systems, but keep visual checks. High closure rate at low altitude—they could pop up from behind the strait haze."
Teppei muttered under his breath.
"Just great… a surprise welcoming party."
Emilie keyed her mic.
"Wolfsbane, defensive posture. Spread formation. Prepare for intercept. Mona, Ayaka, keep me covered. Teppei, trail slot—don't get cute."
The four F-14s banked subtly, adjusting spacing, each pilot now scanning instrument panels, the horizon, and radar with hawk-like focus. Every heartbeat seemed louder inside the cockpit as the first shadows of enemy aircraft pierced the late afternoon haze.
The Dornman Strait, once a quiet corridor, was now primed for battle.
The calm of the Dornman Strait shattered with an urgent radio blast:
AWACS Thunderspike:
"ALL PLANES—ALERT! INCOMING ENEMY AIRCRAFT. SCRAMBLE IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN TO CAP POSITIONS! PROTECT THE FLEET AT ALL COSTS!"
Emilie's expression hardened. She shoved the throttles forward to full military power; the TF30s roared, afterburners igniting in a flash of heat and sound.
"Wilco. Raven—engaging!"
"Starseer—engaging!" Mona's voice was precise, calm under pressure.
"Herring, engaging!" Teppei's grin was audible over the comm.
"Soumetsu, engaging!" Ayaka's tone betrayed a hint of tension, but she keyed her mic firmly.
The four F-14s peeled off in a textbook split, diving toward intercept vectors. Each pilot was scanning, tracking, and calculating simultaneously—radar blips, visual checks, wingman positions.
Emilie locked onto a high-flying AV-8B Harrier II, throttles forward as she yanked the stick into a steep climb. Her thumb rolled the weapon selector to SP/PH—long-range semi-active radar missiles.
Lock. Tone.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!" she shouted.
Two Sparrows surged from her belly pylons, trailing thick smoke trails through the evening haze. Seconds later, explosions ripped through the sky—two Harriers shredded mid-air, debris raining toward the ocean.
"Raven's got a splash!" Emilie barked. She leveled off, scanning the next threat: three low-flying Harriers vectoring straight for the carriers.
From the Arkhe, an urgent broadcast came:
"We're unable to launch aircraft! Intercept those inbound attackers immediately!"
Teppei started, "I got this! On my wa—"
But Emilie was already diving. Lock.
"Fox Three! Fox Three!"
Three long-range AIM-54s screamed free from her fuselage, blue contrails burning through the dim haze. She climbed slightly to manage speed and angle of attack, avoiding potential mast collision hazards. Boom. Boom. Boom. Each missile found its mark. The Harriers erupted in mid-air fireballs.
"Direct hits!" the Arkhe's tower confirmed. "Thanks for the save!"
Teppei groaned, slumping in his seat.
"Damn… never mind. Looks like Emilie's got it handled."
Encrypted chatter bled through the enemy channel:
"Make one pass at a time. Fly hard, fast, and shoot straight. Fly it like you stole it."
Mona was in pursuit of a Harrier weaving unpredictably. The bandit danced left, then right, dodging multiple lock-on attempts.
"Quit jinking around and fly straight, you bastard!" she hissed.
The Harrier climbed sharply right. Mona anticipated the move, cutting inside. Radar chirped. Lock. Tone.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Two Sidewinders peeled off her rails, hitting just behind the cockpit. The enemy aircraft disintegrated mid-air, plummeting into the sea.
"Target down," Mona confirmed, rolling sharply away.
"These conditions are perfect for an ambush," she muttered.
"Yeah," Emilie responded grimly. "Low sun, low visibility… planned to perfection."
Teppei tried to stay upbeat. "Don't sweat it! We've got this—let's take them out and get home!"
Ayaka's hands gripped her stick tighter, fingers trembling.
"I… I've flown before… I can do this…"
"Don't think—just fly!" Emilie barked over the squad channel. "Trust your instincts, Ayaka!"
"R-Right!" Ayaka steadied herself, scanning the horizon.
Emilie's radar caught another trio of Harriers bearing down on the carriers. She banked hard left, pulling into a 90-degree turn that nearly pressed her ribs against the harness. Two enemy aircraft peeled off, but one stayed committed.
Lock.
"Fox Two!" she fired a Sidewinder. Seconds later, the Harrier's empennage shredded, sending it spiraling into the ocean.
A gnawing unease crept into Emilie's gut.
"…Hey," she keyed her mic, "did it seem like they knew exactly when to hit?"
"You're right," Mona replied instantly. "Timing's too perfect… coordinated."
Ayaka added, voice steadying, "Something's off… but I can't pinpoint it yet."
Teppei confirmed his tally over the comm.
"Herring's got a Harrier!" Another missile streaked toward the target, resulting in another fiery splash.
Emilie leveled out—head-on merge. A Harrier was climbing fast, closing in.
Lock. Tone.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Sidewinders screamed off rails. Emilie broke sharply just as the bandit exploded, engulfed in fire and flying shrapnel.
Enemy chatter spat through again:
"We're losing aircraft fast—these bastards know how to fight!"
Squad confirmations lit up the radio.
"Soumetsu has three kills!"
"Starseer, two more confirmed!"
"Herring's sitting at three confirmed!"
Ayaka, eyes wide, targeted a fifth-generation F-35C Lightning II, jinking violently. Despite flying an older fourth-gen F-14, her Tomcat stayed glued to the enemy.
"I-I'm getting dizzy!" she gasped.
"Hold it together!" Emilie barked. "Fly the jet!"
Ayaka tightened her turn. Lock.
"Fox Three! Fox Three!"
Her SAAMs streaked from rails, hitting the F-35C's tail. Flames erupted, and the stealth fighter spiraled into the clouds below.
Ayaka leaned back, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
"YES! Let's go!"
The four Tomcats roared through the crimson haze, a coordinated, lethal force above the Dornman Strait. The carriers were safe—for now—but Emilie knew this was only the beginning.
Teppei's eyes flicked down to the Arkhe, narrowing.
"—H-Hey! One of the Tomcats from the deck's taking off!"
Emilie caught it instantly.
"Perfect. The more teeth in the fight, the better."
Right on cue, a familiar, cocky voice blared over the comms.
Mualani:
"YAHOO! I'm here! Come at me, bastards! I'm right here!"
Teppei let out a relieved groan.
"Finally! What the hell took you so long!?"
But there was no time to celebrate. The calm was shattered by Thunderspike's urgent voice:
AWACS Thunderspike:
"—Alert! Multiple bogeys inbound! All are carrying long-range anti-ship missiles! Defend the fleet at all costs!"
Emilie's eyes snapped to her radar. Two fresh blips closed fast from the south.
"Got 'em on scope. I'm going head-on!"
She yanked both throttles to idle and pushed the stick forward, snapping into a hard 180-degree turn. The F-14 groaned under the G-loading, wings flexing, control surfaces straining—but she held her line.
Once leveled, nose facing the southern threat, Emilie shoved the throttles to full military power. Afterburners flared, flames licking from the exhaust cones. She charged toward the incoming F-35Cs like a predator.
Mona: "Hey Emilie! We just finished cleaning up the last pack of Harriers. Coming in from the west!"
Radar confirmed: friendly blips vectoring in behind her. Emilie grinned beneath the mask.
"Perfect timing."
"All units, form up! Synchronized strike!"
She eased back slightly, popping spoilers to bleed off speed, letting the others catch formation.
One by one, the wings took shape:
Left—Mona and Mualani.
Right—Ayaka and Teppei.
All five F-14A Tomcats hummed in anticipation, engines throbbing under the strain.
Emilie ran a quick systems check, then toggled her loadout.
"Everyone—switch to XMAA loadout. Long-range volleys. We're hitting them together."
Clicks and confirmations echoed across the squad channel as all five jets armed their special missiles.
IFF refresh. Ten hostile signatures. Ten F-35Cs. Twelve o'clock high.
Emilie: "Visual on IFF."
Mona: "Same."
Ayaka: "Visual confirmed."
Mualani: "Bogeys dead ahead!"
Emilie narrowed her eyes, hand steady on the stick.
"Hold fire… Wait for radar tone…"
Beep—beep—beep—steady.
"Fox Three!" she shouted. Two XMAAs launched from ventral pylons, streaking like blue comets toward the enemy formation.
"Fox Three!"
"Fox Three!"
Eight more missiles erupted from the rest of the strike group. Ten total, fanning out in precise arcs—a lethal net stretching across the sky.
Seconds later:
A flash. One kill.
Another.
Another.
Explosions erupted in rapid succession, lighting the crimson-tinged horizon. Trails of smoke and fire painted streaks across the ocean's haze.
Emilie: "AWACS, confirm!"
Silence…
Then Thunderspike's voice returned, tempered with relief.
AWACS Thunderspike: "All bandits down. Outstanding work, strike group."
Emilie pumped a fist.
"Hell yeah!"
Radio chatter erupted:
"Coordination was perfect!"
"Great work, team!"
"Goddamn awesome!"
"Fantastic fucking work!"
"We're clear!"
Thunderspike exhaled over the comms.
"All planes—RTB to carrier formation. Tanker support will be on station shortly."
Emilie keyed her mic. "Wilco, Thunderspike."
The five Tomcats banked north, engines growling as they rolled back onto course. Emilie maintained situational awareness, scanning the sea and sky. The fleet below gleamed in the dying sunlight, carriers and destroyers intact.
But something nagged at her gut. The timing of the strikes—the precision—it didn't feel like a random engagement. Someone had planned this. Someone had calculated exactly when to strike.
She tightened her grip on the stick, eyes forward, ready for whatever came next.
The Dornman Strait was quiet—for now—but Emilie knew this calm would not last.
WAILING TONES.
The cockpits filled with shrill missile alerts.
"H-Hey—what's happening!?" Mona's voice broke over the net.
"We're getting lock warnings!" Teppei snapped, panic cutting through.
Someone shouted across comms, desperate: "Thunderspike, say again—what the hell's going on!?"
Thunderspike's reply slammed through the static, urgent and thunderous.
"ALERT! BALLISTIC MISSILE INBOUND!"
Ayaka's voice cracked. "A—A ballistic missile!? From where!?"
The answer came without words. From the eastern horizon, a long white contrail arced impossibly high above the cloud deck. A flash followed—then another. Brilliant. Blinding. Too fast to process.
Emilie's instincts kicked in. She barked into the net, her voice sharp and commanding.
"Everyone—CLIMB! Full burn, climb as high as you can!"
She shoved her throttles forward, afterburners lighting with a roar that rattled the frame. The Tomcat shuddered as she hauled back on the stick, wings sweeping automatically for climb.
The rest of Wolfsbane and Emberhowl followed in staggered bursts of orange flame.
As the flare of detonation faded, the comms dissolved into chaos.
"An allied squadron just went down!" someone screamed. "What the hell just hit them!?"
"One of the carriers is listing—Christ, she's been struck!"
Mona's voice was panicked, raw. "Someone—anyone—what the hell is going on!?"
Mualani cut in, grim and shaken. "I… I don't know. But anything below five-thousand feet just got vaporized!"
"New missile inbound!" Thunderspike thundered again.
"Shit, another one!?" Teppei's voice cracked.
Emilie didn't hesitate. "All planes, get above five-thousand! Climb higher if you can! Carriers, break into emergency maneuvers!"
Her altimeter swept past 3,500 feet. She willed the Tomcat higher, lungs tight.
"Come on, climb—climb—!"
Ayaka's strained voice filled the net. "Mualani, are you certain about that altitude!?"
"YES!" Mualani barked back. "Five-thousand minimum—that's where the burn stopped!"
Mona risked a glance downward. The sea below was fire and death. Her breath caught. "The decks… they're burning. People are falling overboard…"
Another voice cracked over the channel. Teppei, horrified: "A destroyer's been hit—oh shit, she's breaking apart!"
"Keep climbing! Higher's better!" Emilie snapped.
Their altimeters ticked past 5,000, pushing for 6,000 just to be sure. The air thinned, engines howling under strain.
Thunderspike's voice came again, steady despite the chaos.
"Ten seconds to impact."
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Emilie gritted her teeth, body crushed under G-forces as she held the climb. Her vision tunneled. She forced her eyes shut.
Two.
One.
Impact.
A white detonation tore across the sea, brighter than the sun. The ocean itself seemed to heave under the shock. Ships vanished in the bloom of light and fire.
"—The Remus!" a voice shrieked. "The Remus is hit! She's sinking!"
Mualani's voice cracked, trembling. "H-How… how could this happen to our fleet…"
The net disintegrated into screams.
"The Remus is going under! Abandon ship! ABANDON SHIP!"
"What the fuck is this!? It's like magma raining from the sky!"
"This is the Arkhe—confirm status, all surviving planes report in!"
Emilie was first to answer, forcing steadiness into her voice. "Wolfsbane One, copy. Entire squadron still airborne."
"This is Tempest," Mualani keyed in. "I'm okay. Broke off with Wolfsbane."
Emilie's canopy reflected the inferno below. Smoke. Flames. Shattered wreckage adrift on black water.
Of the three carriers, only two remained.
Of sixteen destroyers, barely four still floated.
Emilie flicked her eyes to the fuel gauges. Both needles were pinned low, quivering against the red line.
"Shit," she muttered. "I'm dry. No way we're making it back to base."
"Same here," Mona cut in, her tone clipped. "I'm on fumes."
"I'm bingo right now," Ayaka admitted, voice tight with fatigue.
Teppei exhaled sharply, resignation in his tone. "Me too…"
Thunderspike came through the net, voice somber.
"Wolfsbane, be advised—no tankers available. Your only option is North Dornman Air Force Base. Proceed northeast immediately."
"HEY!" Teppei barked, frustration bleeding through. "Are you even listening!?"
Ayaka let out a tired sigh. "Teppei… maybe it's time you start calling Emilie 'Captain.'"
Teppei muttered, "Forget it…" He hesitated, his bravado faltering. "If she's captain, I wanna hear her start talking like one. I mean, damn… I miss hearing that voi—"
"YOU ungrateful little shit!" Emilie's voice cut like a blade, sharp and vicious through the static. "This is the SECOND fucking time I've hauled your sorry ass out of a goddamned flaming tailspin—and THIS is how you talk to me?"
Her words hammered down like gunfire. "You oughta be thanking me, you bastard, not flapping your jaw like we're still in high school. You keep screwing up like this, and I'll be the one zipping your body bag shut!"
The channel went dead for a heartbeat. Teppei froze.
"I… uh…" He swallowed hard. "…Right. Sorry, Captain."
Mona's voice was steadier, almost approving. "She's the captain now, Teppei. And I'll be damned if she doesn't deserve it."
Emilie said nothing more. She just kept her Tomcat level, the afterburners throttled back to conserve every last drop of fuel. Her silence was more commanding than any words. A vow burned in her chest.
I will never lose a lead flight again.
Off her wing, Mualani quietly peeled away, banking south to rejoin the shattered fleet. Wolfsbane's four Tomcats pressed on into the smoke-stained sky, climbing northeast toward survival.
Twenty minutes later, the silence inside Emilie's cockpit was suffocating. Fuel flow indicators ticked down in fractions, each digit a reminder of how close the engines were to coughing themselves out. Judging by the terse quiet from Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka, their gauges weren't any better.
Below them stretched a wasteland of scars. Ashen earth pocked with vast black craters—ghosts of a war long past.
Mona's voice came first, distant, almost reverent. "Those craters are still there…"
A pause. "Hard to believe it's been fifteen years."
Emilie's throat tightened. She looked down at the rings scorched into the ground, each a silent monument to insanity.
"Yeah… I remember it like yesterday."
Her tone hardened, gritty. "The Khaenri'ahns launched seven goddamn nukes… on their own soil. Just to keep us from breaking through."
"They buried themselves after that," she continued, voice heavy. "Entombed their cities under radioactive hell."
"Six bombs wiped out their own major cities. Gone in seconds. Glass and ash, nothing left."
"And the seventh?" Mona asked quietly, though she already knew the answer.
Emilie's eyes locked on the ruined wasteland beneath. "Right here. North Dornman."
The radios fell silent again, heavy with the weight of history.
Mona whispered, almost to herself, "The Khaenri'ahn War… was a nightmare."
Emilie lifted her gaze. "Airfield in sight. Get ready for approach."
The Tomcats descended in formation, each pilot balancing the razor edge of fuel starvation. Emilie eased her throttles back, calling out the sequence.
"Drop flaps. Full landing config."
The drag bit immediately, the nose shuddering as speed bled off. She reached down, toggled the gear handle. Clunk—clunk—clunk. Three greens. Gear locked.
Snow whipped across the canopy as the runway emerged out of the haze—long, dark, and lined with red-orange floodlights.
Mona gave a quiet chuckle. "Would you look at that… We're coming back to where it all started. First place we trained together."
Teppei's voice followed, quieter now, stripped of bravado. "Yeah… hell of a ride, huh?"
Emilie allowed herself the faintest smile. "Damn right."
Ayaka added softly, "Feels like a lifetime ago…"
The four F-14As touched down almost in unison, their wheels screaming against the concrete. Drag chutes blossomed behind them, the big fighters slowing with a violent shudder. One by one, they rolled out, turned, and taxied clear.
The base was silent. Snow drifted across the apron, settling on rows of F-5 Tiger IIs parked like relics, ghosts of training days gone.
Engines spooled down. One canopy popped, then another. Emilie climbed out, snowflakes clinging to her helmet before she pulled it off. The cold bit her skin as she dropped from the ladder, boots crunching against the frozen tarmac. The others joined her wordlessly.
Mona murmured, "Feels like forever since we were here last."
"Yeah," Teppei agreed, eyes scanning the field. "Back when we were just nuggets."
Emilie's voice was quieter, reflective. "Captain Candace molded us here."
Teppei exhaled, a half-laugh, half-sigh. "And now… you're the one carrying the captain's crown, Emilie."
Her gaze slid toward him, unreadable. "Right."
She tugged her flight suit collar higher. "Come on. Let's get inside before we freeze our asses off."
They walked the apron together under falling snow. The base was a ghost town, still and lifeless, the Tiger IIs standing watch over nothing but silence.
Inside, the warmth hit like a wave. They were met by the base commander—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a faint scar down his cheek. His uniform was immaculate, his bearing iron-straight.
The four pilots snapped to salute. He returned it with crisp precision.
"At ease. You'll stay here for the night. Tomorrow, you depart."
"Yes, sir," Emilie replied evenly. "Thank you. We appreciate the support."
They started down the corridor toward quarters, but the commander's voice stopped her.
"Oh—Captain Emilie?"
She turned back. "Sir?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, you'll bring the nuggets back here to Petrichor Air Force Base. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded once, dismissing them.
Later, Emilie sat alone in her quarters. The room was small, cold, spartan. She set her helmet and gloves on the battered desk, peeled free of her flight suit, undershirt damp with sweat despite the chill.
Dropping onto the cot, she exhaled a long, tired groan.
"Goddammit…"
What was supposed to be a simple escort op had turned into a slaughter. A full-scale naval ambush. And now… ballistic missiles.
She stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight.
"But how the hell did they know?"
The mission was blacked out. Only Teyvat High Command had the details. Natlan wasn't even supposed to be there.
And yet… they'd been waiting.
They knew.
Her eyes narrowed. The thought burned like fire.
"…But how?"
Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing North Dornman Air Force Base in silence.