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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/duddlered on 2025-01-17 13:27:32+00:00.

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Captain Kai “Skunk” Wu sat in the cockpit of his F-16 as his gloved fingers tapped restlessly against the outside of his open canopy. The cool air in the early morning darkness did little to ease his frayed nerves as he beat a smooth rhythmic pattern that betrayed his impatience. Low hums of idling jet engines and the familiar scent of jet fuel filled the air, but tonight, everything felt different.

As he gazed out over the tarmac, Wu’s eyes were greeted by ground crews hustling between aircraft, shouting orders and signals that were lost to him over the whines of turbines. Not only were there F-16s like his lined up, but he saw F-15cs and even F-35s, all of which were bristling with the new Raytheon Peregrine missiles. The Sleek and deadly hit-to-kill weapons were fresh out of research and development and put into the perfect position to be adopted by the standardized ‘dragon killers.’

Measured at approximately 6 feet long, these missiles had the equivalent range of an AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile (AMRAAM) that the US Air Force typically fielded and had little effect on their draconic foe. The Peregrine, on the other hand, looked very promising and needed very little modification to house Depleted Uranium penetrators to make them even more lethal against armored targets.

Wu watched as more conventional fighters idled off to the side, with the machines’ pilots lounging or performing routine checks. Meanwhile, logistics aircraft and the F-35s taxi for their runs to takeoff. It wasn’t the nail in the coffin that Wu would assume was the kick-off to something larger, but it was another point on the graph that made the line longer. Why else would anything and everything with powerful radars take to the skies before all the other, more heavily armed, aircraft?

He licked his lips and sat back before gazing at the air-control tower. If Wu was honest with himself and didn’t indulge in this schizo behavior, then odds had it that this was another exercise or readiness maneuver. It would have been the fifteenth time they’d been told to scramble, only to idle on the tarmac and be told to spool down and go back to the briefing room. The few times they’d manage to take off and get into formation, their command would always call it off at the last minute and have them turn back.

It was like a bit of dance they’d perform over and over again. Wu knew why; discerning eyes were waiting and watching what they’d be doing. To what end, however? Well, that was way beyond Wu’s pay grade.

But something was nagging at him. There was this gnawing sensation in his gut that they were in the precipice, and he simply couldn’t shake it. Sure, he could also say they’d been on the precipice this entire time, but today felt more… real.

It all started with the briefing room. Their roles were explained in greater detail, with more objectives and specific targets. In comparison, they’d been training for these scenarios in more broad strokes for months, but this night, Wu was given proper areas of responsibility and taskings.

During the briefing, their objectives were laid out with uncharacteristic specificity. The entire squadron was to perform probing operations and support Wild Weasels in drawing out enemy air assets and getting a good idea of their defense network. It was apparent to Wu that what the briefing outlined wasn’t a full-on air campaign, but it was a step in the direction of one—a calculated move to test the waters and map out unknown threats.

Wu Adjusted himself in his seat as a wave of jitters flowed through him. They were testing the waters here, and the rough map of their area of responsibility further justified his suspicions. While the heavier hitters would secure a buffer zone around the rift, Wu and the rest of the squadron were pressed further to see how the enemy would react.

Basically, his job was to kick the hornet’s nest and see what would happen.

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by the distinctive buzzing of propeller blades cutting through the din of jet engines. Snapping his head to the side, Wu’s eyes widened when he saw the hulking figures of C-130 Hercules cargo planes lining up on an adjacent runway, their engines roaring as they prepared for takeoff. Even more shocking were the AC-130 Ghostriders gunships, bristling with weaponry, taxiing up behind their cargo sister planes and preparing for their own sorties.

Wu watched silently as the hulking AC-130 Ghostriders lumbered down the runway, their propellers chopping through the air with a throaty roar. The gunships seemed almost out of place among the sleek jets, but their presence spoke volumes. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as the sounds of their propellers turned violent, lurching them forward as the behemoths took off.

Gripping the edge of his canopy, Wu continued to stare as each of the incarnations of death took to the skies. “Pampers, you seeing this?” He keyed his mic over the squadron frequency.

There was a moment of static-laden silence before Lieutenant Kara ‘Pampers’ Bell responded. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m seeing it.” She responded in an uncharacteristically subdued tone that carried a hint of unease.

The flight leader glanced over to where her F-16 was parked a few jets down the line. He could imagine her expression mirroring his own—a mix of apprehensive anticipation. “They don’t roll those things out unless something was going down,” Wu said as his fingers drummed against the side of his cockpit more intensely.

“Guess this means we’re really doing it,” Pampers replied. There was a slight quiver in her voice that she quickly tried to suppress. “I don’t think this another drill.”

“Yeah,” Wu agreed. “I think this is it.”

The other two in Wu’s flight remained uncharacteristically silent as the weight of that conversation seemed to settle. After months of prep and tion and countless briefings, the movement had finally arrived. Even though they wanted nothing more than to deliver sweet and swift vengeance against those who had the gall to invade them, the men of Skunk’s flight were still nervous.

Silence reigned over the comms as the last of the lumbering cargo planes, and gunships lifted into the sky, their silhouettes shrinking against the horizon. The usual banter and chatter among pilots had faded. They were replaced by collective anticipation. Crossing into an alien world was no longer an absurd abstract concept whispered about in briefing rooms—it was now imminent. They were about to project America’s might through the rift, and every pilot here would be the instrument of their country’s justice.

But the contemplative quiet was all interrupted by the crackle of the control tower’s frequency coming to life. “Attention all aircraft. Execute, execute, execute. Time now 1630 hours.” An authoritative voice echoed in their helmets. “I repeat, All aircraft. Execute, execute, execute.”

Immediately after, the familiar voice of their squadron commander, Colonel William “Roadkill” Reeves, resonated over the squadron channel. “All flights, this is Roadkill. Mission is a go. Commence takeoff sequence per briefed plan.”

Almost in a snap of the fingers, the doubts, anxieties, and unease that had been tingling at the edges of every pilot’s consciousness were washed away and replaced by cool professionalism. Wu himself felt as if he suddenly switched gears. His fingers flew back inside the cockpit, and he deftly moved over switches and controls as he double-checked all his systems.

The tower’s voice came through again, this time directed towards Wu’s flight. “Skunk 1, Tower. Clear to taxi, runway four.”

Satisfied with his checks, Wu took a deep breath and hit his transmit button. “Tower, Skunk 1. Rolling with two, proceeding to runway four.” He replied before signaling to the ground crew to double time.

The ground hustled around the aircraft to double-check that nothing was out of order while the crew chief rushed to the edge of the taxiway. Once there, he lifted two bright orange wands, and with crisp movements, he guided Wu forward, ensuring clearance from nearby aircraft and equipment. The marshaller’s gestures were sharp and unmistakable—even in the early 0300 darkness.

Wu’s marshaller stood in front of his jet with two orange wands, guiding his pilot as they began to Taxi. Wu followed the marshaller around other aircraft and obstructions as he eased the throttle forward. But eventually, the marshaller came to a halt, snapped his heels together, and offered a crisp, sharp salute the moment the aircraft hit the taxiway.

The Captain returned the gesture and continued toward the hold short line as the canopy lowered over him. A hydraulic hiss resounded, sealing him inside the cockpit, muffling the external noises, and cocooning him as Wu worked his instruments and displays.

As he approached the hold short line, Wu noticed that a pair of F-15EXs on full burner on Runway 4 and gently lifted into the air as Wu brought his F-16 to a stop. Glancing over to his right, Wu watched as Bell pulled up alongside him, giving him a thumbs-up as her own canopy was sealed shut.

“You ready to hurry up and wait?” Wu’s headset echoed with a bell voice, causing him to chuckle and place a hand over his lowered visor.

Nothing in the world could describe the military as a whole more t…

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