Summoning America

Chapter 118: Rain of Death

Constellis Base, Northgard Region

Colonel Mike Alston slapped down his hand, his expert poker face contorting into a devilish grin. "Royal flush. Pay up, fuckers," he said as he beckoned with his hand.

A flurry of groans and complaints were thrown around by his squadmates in response.

"There's just no fucking way," a black-haired man sighed, staring into the ceiling. "That's twice you've had a royal flush this week! Don't tell me you got magic powers or some shit."

Mike shrugged and gave a slight smirk, "I'm just better. You'll get me one day, Harry."

Harry crossed his arms, opening his mouth as if he was ready to grumble further about his defeat. Before he could even utter a single word, an announcement came over the intercom, followed by flashing red lights. "Be ready to deploy within ten minutes! The Gra Valkans have begun marching toward the border!"

Mike smiled. He felt weird doing so, since his actions demonstrated his excitement to go to war. In reality, he was relieved that the boredom of the past few weeks was finally lifted. For days, he and his crew lounged about their base doing fuck all while they waited for the Gra Valkans to make a move. There was only so much more enjoyment they could get from hours of playing cards, and only so many more stories to share. If it weren't for his ridiculous hands, he and his squadron probably would've gone crazy.

"Finally!" The red-haired hotshot, Eddy, said. "I was getting so damn tired of waiting."

An aging pilot who served during the Balkan Crisis named Brandon nodded in agreement. "Nothing beats shooting down Sukhois, but fighting Valkie planes is sure to be more fun than fighting Parpie wyverns."

"Here, here," Mike agreed religiously, having served with Brandon during the same conflict.

The men continued their idle chatter while they walked from the hangar to the tarmac, where their jets awaited them. A row of six planes glittered under the sun, steel and glass reflecting light. The space around the planes was crowded by ground crews conducting final checks, who quickly dispersed once all preparations had been made. The pilots each took their seats, five of them entering loaned F-15C Eagles and one – Colonel Alston himself – entering an F-35A.

Mike climbed into his seat, feeling reinvigorated by the atmosphere of the cockpit. As he sealed the canopy and began to pull out onto the runway, he felt as if new life was breathed into him. After fiddling with his control panel and flicking on the necessary switches, he maneuvered his plane onto the center of the runway. Following the guidance of the aircraft marshallers on the ground, he ignited his engines and began to take off.

The engine roared as flames spewed out the back, the acceleration pressing him against the back of his seat. The snow-covered grass around the runway whizzed past, turning into a blur as his F-35 sped up. Mike soon found himself in the air, flying higher than anyone else in the history of the Mu continent. He looked around him, seeing glimpses of his squadron past the kaleidoscope of sublimating frost. The melted water flew off the canopy, dropping behind him as he led his men toward the front lines.

Data from drones and other feeds complemented his sensors, apprising him of important information from enemy positions to terrain. While the F-35 computer analyzed and distributed the data to his squadron, he and his men received a transmission from the base. "Spare Squadron, mission parameters have been updated. Once you've eliminated all Gra Valkan bombers and escorting aircraft, you are to bomb hostile artillery and logistics targets behind enemy lines. Targeting data will be uploaded after you've cleared the skies. Good hunting and Godspeed."

Mike glanced at the hostile radar contacts on his screen. As described in previous intelligence reports, the number of enemy bombers and fighters were 60 and 45, respectively. It was clear that the Gra Valkan objective was to wipe out the meager defenses of the Northgard region in order to clear out a flanking path. However, what they didn't anticipate was the fact that Americans would be defending this region as mercenaries.