Logan
Spratly Islands Airspace
Outside, the night stretches endlessly, black and unbroken, a void that swallows everything.
The faint outline of the horizon has long since vanished, leaving me with nothing but the smooth hum of the jet and the sharp clarity of my instruments.
I glance at the HUD again. No new contacts.
The soft glow steadies me, grounding me in the chaos.
“Raptor Flight, check in,” Townsend cuts in, his tone clipped and professional, no-nonsense.
“Ghost here, all systems green,” Dalton responds, calm and as unshaken as always. He’s reliable in a way that quells my nerves, too.
“Saint, good to go,” Wells chimes in, a little too chipper, his voice carrying an edge of tension he’s trying to mask.
“Viking, on your six,” I say, my voice even, though I feel the adrenaline building, sharp and electric.
I take a steadying breath, syncing my heartbeat to the rhythm of the jet’s engine.
This is what we train for.
It’s why we’re here.
The comms crackle. Colonel Daniels’s voice cuts in, sharp and authoritative. “Eagle Eye to Raptor Flight, we’re in position. Target is illuminated. Begin strike sequence.”
“Copy that,” Townsend replies.
I flick a switch and adjust my course. The ground below blinks into focus on my HUD as the targeting laser locks on to a fortified position. It’s textbook—clean, precise, almost too smooth. My instincts prick at the back of my mind.
“Bishop, to Flight,” Townsend’s voice breaks the quiet. His tone is commanding, like he’s done this a thousand times before. “I’ve got this one. Viking, Ghost, Saint, cover for bogeys.”
“Copy that.”
I peel off and scan the skies. The airspace around us is quiet. But I know better than to trust the silence.
The night hides more than just shadows.
The targeting pod hums as Bishop maneuvers into position, his Raptor gliding smoothly through the black. Below, the designated target waits like an unspoken challenge.
The F-22 is built to dominate the skies, that’s its purpose, its edge.
Air superiority is what makes it lethal, what makes us untouchable.
But when the mission demands it because it’s about more than clearing the airspace, it’s about hitting back hard, we can adapt.
For tonight, my jet, along with Townsend’s, has been outfitted for both ground attack and air-to-air combat.
It’s not what the Raptor was designed for, but it can do it.
Normally, our weapons are tucked inside internal bays to maintain stealth, but carrying munitions for ground targets means using external hardpoints, loading weapons on the wings.
It bulks the jet up, messes with the aerodynamics, and most importantly, compromises our stealth profile.
The second we carry anything outside the fuselage, we’re no longer invisible.
The enemy’s radar can pick us up a lot easier, which makes us vulnerable. A target.
But the trade-off is firepower. Precision-guided bombs, air-to-ground missiles, enough to wipe out our targets in a single pass.
It’s a risk, flying with our stealth jeopardized.
But it’s necessary. Because this isn’t just a demonstration of force—it’s retaliation.
And if we need to rain hell from the sky to avenge Ryan’s death, I’ll carry every bomb, every missile, and drop them all myself.
My eyes dart back to the HUD, scanning for movement, for the faintest blip of an incoming threat.
The void around me feels alive, like it’s holding its breath.
“Viking, Saint,” Dalton’s voice slices through the comms, sharp and urgent. “Two bandits at ten o’clock, inbound. They’re closing fast.”
My stomach tightens. Nothing about this mission has felt right, and this only confirms it. “Looks like they brought friends,” I mutter as another two flash across my radar causing my pulse to kick up a notch. “Raptor Flight, break and engage.”
I shove the throttle forward, the engine roaring as the F-22 surges ahead, tearing through the inky void of the night. The cockpit vibrates with power. I feel it deep in my bones. My HUD lights up, the enemy fighters flashing in ominous red as they close the distance.
“Saint, Ghost, stay sharp,” I call into the comms, my eyes darting between the bandits and our flight’s positions. “These guys aren’t amateurs.”
My targeting system locks on to one of the incoming fighters, a Su-25, the piercing tone blaring in my ears like a fire alarm. My hands move on instinct, adjusting the reticle and aligning the shot.
“Saint, watch your six!” I shout as I see Wells veer hard, narrowly dodging a missile lock.
“Copy, Viking,” he replies, his voice tight. “I’m clear.”
I squeeze the trigger, and the missile streaks away, a blur of fire and destruction. The seconds stretch unbearably thin before the enemy fighter explodes in a burst of flames and debris, lighting up the darkness like a dying star.
“Splash one,” I call out, adrenaline coursing through me.
“Viking, you’ve got a bandit on your tail!” Dalton’s voice comes through, urgent.
I yank the stick hard, rolling the jet into a sharp turn that presses me into the seat, the g-forces clawing at my chest. The enemy fighter sticks close, its tracer rounds slicing through the air, perilously close to my tail.
“Not today,” I growl, twisting into another evasive maneuver. The extra weight drags at the wings—air-to-ground loadout isn’t ideal for a knife fight—but the Raptor still moves like a predator. The bandit overshoots, and I snap into position behind it.
“Locked,” I mutter as the reticle settles over the target. My missile screams forward, and the Sukhoi erupts in flames. “Splash two.”
Before I can catch my breath, Daniels’s voice crackles over the comms, tense and clipped. “Eagle Eye to Raptor Flight, we’re taking heavy fire. Request immediate suppression.”
“Copy that,” Townsend replies, his tone a forced kind of calm. “Viking, cover me. I’m going in.”
“On it,” I reply, breaking off to shadow him.
Townsend dives toward the compound with surgical precision, the targeting laser painting his mark. His bomb drops through the night like a predator zeroing in on its prey. “Bombs away, motherfuckers.”
The explosion is catastrophic, fire and debris erupting in all directions. Even at altitude, the shock wave rocks my jet, rattling my teeth. The anti-aircraft guns fall silent.
“Hell of a shot, Bishop,” I mutter, more impressed than I’d care to admit.
“Eagle Eye, how’s the ground?” Townsend asks.
“Primary target is clear,” Daniels responds, his tone less strained now. “Advancing. No resistance so far.”
I exhale slowly, but the tension in my chest doesn’t ease. Nothing about this mission has been smooth. My eyes sweep the ground below, the compound now a smoldering ruin.
“Saint, Viking,” Dalton’s voice cuts through the comms again, sharper this time. “Incoming fast movers, two o’clock high. Looks like they’ve got heat seekers locked.”
My blood turns cold, adrenaline dumping into my system like a jolt of electricity. “Raptor Flight, defensive maneuvers! Break now!” I bark, shoving the stick forward as the threat warning blares in my ears.
I pull into a steep climb, the g-forces slamming me into my seat, but it’s not enough. My radar display lights up with two red blips.
One of them locked squarely onto me.