The Battle of Cornwall
Day Three
British Counteroffensive
"Indian aerowings is it?" Churchill tapped the glossy wing of one of the new fighters, boons from the Red Nations.
Xever Clah, dark and grim, pulled the tando hat lower, cutting the sun's might reflecting off the incoming Hun skyschiff. "Yes. Tsalagi models to be precise. Payment can come later, President Thunderchild assured it considering--"
"Yes, yes! End Times. Old wives' tales come to life." Churchill looked to the northeast in solemn remembrance. London long since gone in the dawn of this mad apocalypse. Royal family on the run. Ungodly. Germans hovering over the sea, specters of savagery...
"Diné perfected armor-bearer technology. Each aerowing possesses greater manueverability and guns than American models. Germans never should have crossed us." Xever slammed shut the lid on the pill box.
"Diné?"
"Navajo, Minister." He hoped informants had given him the proper title for the Brit. Churchill's titles changed in this war more than the weather.
"Ah. And, Mister Clah, do your masterful services come with this armada in miniature?" He coughed up a laugh along with cigar vapor.
Clah hopped into a two-seater model, engine pummeling, pilot in red streak warpaint screaming. "Does this answer your question?" A furtive smirk. Whoops for victory...
Skyward!
Second Reich brought the scourge. Oberkaiser Zwei. Destroyer of London. Killer of newly remade D.C. Obliterator of Manhattan. She meant to wipe out Liverpool and Cardiff.
Not this day. Not ever.
The native wing ascended, sent messengers ahead in the form of a thousand lead birds. Dozens of aerowings joined in. British survivors. French refugees. Irish Republican Aerialists.
Lose the war. Win the battle!
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