Logan
South China Sea
The cockpit hums with energy, every instrument glowing with purpose as I maintain position off Townsend’s wing. He leads the formation, his voice steady over the comms as he lays it out.
“Stay sharp. Multiple bogeys heading straight for us—vector zero-nine-five. Weapons check and follow protocol. We don’t make the first move unless fired upon. Copy?”
“Viking, standing by.”
“Spartan, copy.”
“Ghost, ready.”
An AWACS—Airborne Warning and Control System—operator chimes in, the voice in my headset clipped and professional.
“Raptors, be advised. You’re entering contested airspace.
Multiple Su-57s—hostile, unresponsive. Rules of engagement remain clear—hail them, but do not compromise position unnecessarily. Over.”
Townsend doesn’t hesitate. “Copy. Bishop to all aircraft: four bandits, twelve o’clock, ten miles. Weapons hot. Maintain stealth.”
We close in, the dark ocean glinting below as morning light stretches over the horizon. My pulse thrums in my ears. My HUD pings with incoming radar signatures.
Four Su-57s.
They’re looking for us.
Townsend transmits. “Raptor One to unidentified aircraft. This is the United States Air Force. You are approaching restricted airspace. Turn back immediately or you will be engaged. Repeat. Turn back or face engagement.”
Silence.
“Unidentified aircraft, this is your final warning,” Townsend repeats, his tone sharper now. “Turn back or face engagement.”
Still nothing.
My gut clenches. Either they don’t understand English, or they don’t care.
Most likely the latter.
“Guess they’re not here for a chat,” Ryan mutters.
Then my RWR—radar warning receiver—lights up.
“Bishop, I’m getting pings.” Ryan’s voice is sharp now. “They’re sweeping. Actively looking.”
“Copy,” Townsend says, ice-calm. “Hold formation.”
Another warning flashes.
The Sukhois aren’t just looking. They’ve found something.
“They’re locking us up,” Dalton says, tension coiling in his voice.
AWACS cuts in again. “Raptor One, bandits have locked weapons. Hostile intent confirmed.”
A warning tone screams in my headset as my radar screen floods red.
“Missile launch! Break!” Townsend orders, and we scatter.
My training kicks in. I roll hard right, yanking the stick as I push the throttle. The missile chases, its proximity alarm shrieking in my ears. I punch out flares, twisting into a brutal spiral. The heat-seeker chases the decoy, but another missile is already inbound.
“I’ve got one locked on to me,” I grit out.
“I see it,” Ryan says, his voice tense. “Hold tight.”
I dive low, skimming the ocean, vapor trailing off my wingtips. The missile follows, but Ryan streaks past, guns blazing. A burst of cannon fire rips into the Su-57 trailing me, and the Russian jet veers off, smoking but still in the fight.
“You’re clear, Viking,” Ryan says. “But they’re not done.”
Two more enemy jets split off, maneuvering into a deadly pincer. They’re fast. Too fast.
“Bishop, we’re getting boxed in,” I warn.
“Stay unpredictable,” Townsend orders. “Ghost, Spartan, break left and hit them from below. Viking, stay with me. We’re taking the high road.”
I yank the stick, climbing hard, the g-forces pressing me into my seat. One of the Su-57s follows, its sleek form ripping dawn in two. My HUD flashes as it locks on to me again. Another missile. No time to dodge.
“Dumping countermeasures!” I deploy flares and chaff, rolling violently as the missile detonates just behind me, sending a shock wave rattling through my airframe.
“I’ve got him,” Townsend calls. His F-22 slices across my vision, a perfect intercept. “Fox Three.”
The AIM-120 slams into the enemy fighter, tearing it apart midair.
“Splash one,” Townsend confirms.
Another Sukhoi is bearing down on Dalton, forcing him into an erratic defensive spiral. He’s out of position, nowhere to go.
“Ghost, keep moving!” Townsend barks.
Dalton jerks his jet sideways, but the Su-57 fires. A missile screams toward him.
I don’t think. I act.
I dive between them, cutting the missile’s path. Flares eject, white-hot streaks of light, and the missile explodes off my tail. My jet shudders, warning alarms blaring.
“Shit, Viking,” Dalton exhales. “I owe you.”
“Buy me a beer,” I say, wheeling back into position.
Ryan seizes the moment. “Fox Two.” His Sidewinder finds its mark. The Sukhoi explodes, a fireball plummeting toward the sea. “Splash two.”
I push the throttle, climbing after the third Su-57. The pilot’s good—dicey. But the Raptor’s thrust vectoring gives me the edge. I cut angles sharper than he can, forcing him defensive.
“Fox Three,” I call, losing an AMRAAM.
The missile streaks away. The enemy pilot reacts fast—spitting flares, jinking hard. The missile loses track, veering off-course.
Damn.
I press the fight, pushing closer. He breaks right. I follow. He tries to outmaneuver me. I play the game. Make him think he’s won, then reverse hard, pulling into a high yo-yo. The Su-57 overshoots, and I snap onto his tail.
“Fox Three!” I hiss again.
The Sidewinder leaps from the rail, connecting and shredding the jet.
“Splash three.” I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Townsend and Dalton are tangled with the last one.
Dalton’s voice cuts in, urgent. “Bishop, you’ve got one on your six! Break now!”
Townsend rolls hard left, just as Dalton’s AMRAAM streaks through the space where he was. The missile goes straight through the canopy and obliterates the enemy fighter midair.
“Splash four,” Dalton says, voice steady.
Silence rings over the comms. Then Townsend exhales, relief, pride, and what’s left of his fear twisting together. “Good work, Flight.”
My heart’s still pounding. The adrenaline seeping out, leaving me wrung out and wired.
It’s never just about winning.
It’s always about making it back.
“Raptor One to AWACS: hostile threat neutralized. RTB. Over,” Townsend says.