"Report to Major Chekhov, 'Genuine Fragrance' Combat Flight Squadron has assembled completely, with seventeen due and seventeen present!"
The 911 Aircrew Base's main combat force, seventeen pilots stood neatly in two rows. The vice squadron leader was that short-haired girl, with her eight-pack abs and a bust size that's an A – any bigger and, under high G-forces, she would punch herself silly with a deadly uppercut.
At the sound of the first alarm, the leisurely pilots in Hangar 1 sprang up like a disturbed henhouse, all bouncing into action.
Those working out abandoned their gym equipment without even wiping off sweat, jumping into their anti-g suits still reeking of perspiration; those playing poker tossed their cards aside without a second thought, leaving their bets of Star Yuan notes unclaimed; those who had been eating and drinking immediately got their act together, hurriedly and clumsily getting dressed for duty.
Those who were still catching up on sleep in their quarters rushed over, shuffling along with their shoes half-on and clothes in hand, tumbling and scrambling to get there.
The 911 Aircrew Base's combat flight squadron is oddly named "Genuine Fragrance", which sounds quite peculiar indeed, lacking the fierce and majestic aura, as if chosen at random. Yet, when connected to the pilots' call signs, it starts to make a bit of sense.
Squadron Leader Major Chekhov Leonidovich Ivanov goes by the call sign "Peanut Butter", and the vice squadron leader, the short-haired girl Iline Rusios, uses the call sign "Devil Pepper", with others adopting various condiment sauces as their flying monikers.
All these seasonings gathered together, Emmm... genuinely fragrant!
It also implies a ravenous hunger for battle.
Squadron Leader Major Chekhov Leonidovich Ivanov, with a bloated belly and puffing with the stench of alcohol, strolled around and bellowed, "Comrades, good, uh! Comrades, thank you for your hard work. Let's start checking the combat tasks, uh! Anyone fancy a drink?"
He shook his head, feeling absolutely great.
Drinking kept the brain alert, no flying in a straight line, and nobody could shoot the transcendentally awesome Comrade Chekhov down from the skies.
A randomly moving Brownian motion curve is unpredictable. Unless you close your eyes and blindly shoot, using probability to counter chaos, it's impossible to guarantee any hit rate.
The justification he found for drunk flying was so ingeniously unique it left one speechless.
Utterly convincing!
None of the 17 pilots from the "Genuine Fragrance" squadron said a word. Erguotou and Na Zi were the squadron leader's creed; no one wanted trouble for themselves.
Seeing no one respond, Chekhov, feeling somewhat disappointed, twisted the bottle cap, pulled down the zipper of his anti-G suit, stuffed the bottle down into his crotch, and thrust out his hips, as if ready to warm up a drink to face Hua Xiong.
"201 ready!"
"202 ready!"
Two MiG-28 jet fighters from Hangar 2 were towed by the tug crew, one behind the other, passing the gate of Hangar 1 and heading to the open apron near the main runway.
201 and 202 were the identification codes of these two MiG Big Babies. The "Made-in-USA MiG" was a joke of sorts, the original being the re-commenced strategic reserve production line of the F-20 "Tiger Shark" jet fighter. This once export celebrity, designed to match the Soviet MiG-21, the second-generation benchmark, could do anything the MiG could.
It could even carry AIM-7 Sparrow missiles for BVR combat. Having upgraded its avionics and engine, it still proved to be an ageless sword with great cost-performance ratio: carrying more and flying further, definitely an air dominance weapon for military contractors. Those little turboprops would only be scattered in pieces.
Squadron Leader Chekhov from the "Genuine Fragrance" Combat Flight Squadron boarded a vehicle from the crew transport and headed towards the tarmac to prepare for boarding his aircraft.
Kill the Metallic Giant Dragon, and the rewards would be substantial!
Before his words had even settled, several sharp, silver spears, flashing at a blinding speed, shot forth and turned two MiG-28 jet fighters that had just arrived on the tarmac into porcupines.
The ground crew by the planes stood dumbfounded for a moment and then, as one, their faces paled. They turned to escape, but a tremendous explosion and a burst of brilliant flames instantly swallowed them, along with all of the equipment on the entire tarmac.
The ground power unit and refueling vehicle that failed to get away were torn to pieces.
"Damn Metallic Giant Dragons, all of them are madmen!"
The shockwave that swept in unexpectedly knocked Squadron Leader Chekhov to the ground. He spat out a mouthful of choking smoke and clumsily got up, suddenly remembering something important. He reached down to check himself and immediately broke into a sleazy, smug grin. He chuckled to himself and turned his head to call to his wingman, Basong, the pilot of the MiG-202.
"Well, Basong, you will have to be my fire control operator again. Hmm, Basong?!"
Fortunately, the "Dragon Slayer Missiles" mounted under the wings had not detonated in full, as their horrific destructive power could have blasted a huge crater in the tarmac and damaged the nearby main takeoff and landing runway, with destructive effects comparable to a full strike from a 400mm caliber main ship's cannon.
Not only would Major Chekhov Leonidovich Ivanov have been killed on the spot, but even the nearby hangar would not have been spared.
The two MiG-28 jet fighters were reduced to ashes right before their eyes. However, Chekhov and Basong were also the flight crew for A-39B "Big Mouth Monster" light turboprop attack aircraft number 211, with "Peanut Butter" Chekhov as the pilot and "Lemongrass" Basong as the fire control operator.
Whether flying in formation or together on the same aircraft, the two always had a rapport akin to telepathy, irreplaceable by anyone else.
But Basong could no longer respond.
He lay motionless on the ground, barely discernable, with most of his head gone. Blood soaked his body, and a single lifeless eye resembling a dead fish stared blankly at the flames and thick smoke rising a hundred meters away.
The poor soul hadn't even boarded the MiG-28 jet fighter before the explosion of this "Big Baby" took off half of his head, chilling his body rapidly.
Poor partner!
Chekhov slammed his fist onto the ground in frustration.
Three columns of thick smoke rose within the Aircrew Base, as three anti-air missiles, trailing flames, shot into the sky, gaining speed and howling toward the heavens.
The dense anti-air artillery emplacements and high-angle guns didn't dare make a sound, fearing they'd be serving up easy targets. The anti-air missile sites immediately emptied their launchers in the first response.
The Metallic Dragons, having evolved into the Digital Dragon Race, now boasted a wider array of attack methods. Any slip could leave you defenseless; so once you engage, you must unleash full firepower without hesitation. You fight as fiercely as possible, pouring in all your effort—perhaps then you might carve a path to survival.
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