Summoning America

Chapter 173: Junnaral (2)

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Artticus Ocean, off the coast of Junnaral

IGVN Fourth Conquest Fleet

Antares Squadron, VF-45 "Himmelsklingen"

As the gravity of the situation set in, Lieutenant Berndt 'Eisenherz' Konig gazed in disbelief at the burning carriers below. "By Valhalla, wir sind verloren," he stammered into the comms, his voice laced with panic. "It is over. We're doomed. They've taken out our carriers!"

"Keep it together, Eisenherz!" barked Captain Falk 'Sturmfaust' Rohrig. "This is exactly what they want – chaos and fear." The words he spoke felt hollow in his own mouth; he knew Konig was right, but he didn't know what else he could aside from keeping his men in line.

First Lieutenant Lars 'Nordwind' Mullen interjected, "Captain, they're not done. These Americans... they won't leave the skies contested. They're coming for us next!"

"Eject? Should we eject now?" Eisenherz's voice cracked.

Nordwin continued, as if in support of Eisenherz's panicked suggestions. "Captain, we can't outmaneuver their missiles. We've heard what they can do. The Fifth Fleet is gone, with no losses on the American side. We need to get out of here."

Fuck. He had no time to think. The waters below were cold – not freezing, but enough to result in hypothermia. There was no safe place to land, and no way to fight back. Would he prefer a slow death in the waters or risk a gruesome death at the fins or tentacles of a sea monster? Or would he prefer a fiery but quick death in his cockpit?

The other pilots in his squadron seemed to have the same uncertainties, with Eisenherz's solution looking more enticing by the second. Hoping to at least buy some time, he asked Nordwind, "Have you heard of any maneuver we can pull off?"

"We can try diving, reducing altitude. The waves are rough; it might be enough to throw off –" Nordwind's transmission was cut off, replaced with garble and static.

American jamming. It could only mean one thing: an attack was imminent. He watched as Eisenherz ejected from his Antares. The coward immediately bailed as soon as they got jammed. He and the other pilots who had caught Nordwind's explanation dove toward the surface. If the American missiles did rely on radar, then this would hopefully improve their chances of survival, if only marginally.

He angled the nose of his Antares downward, his body becoming weightless for a moment before being pushed back into his seat as the dive picked up speed. Before he could even descend under a thousand meters, bright fireballs erupted around him followed by the muted sounds of explosions. It seemed Eisenherz, in his paranoia-induced cowardice, had made the right call.

The sheer velocity and precision of the missiles that struck them had left no room for the maneuverability of their Antares to make a significant difference. He instinctively jerked his plane left as he continued the dive. Not even a second after his comrades were shot down, a missile detonated almost a dozen meters behind his aircraft, slightly off to the side. The shockwave violently rattled the plane, fragments pelting the rear. He closed his eyes, accepting his fate. A couple seconds passed, but – nothing. He was still breathing. He didn't feel any pain in his body. Was he dead?

He opened his eyes. No, he was not dead; neither was he even injured. The realization hit Sturmfaust like a thunderbolt. He was alive, miraculously unscathed. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing his bewildered relief. He sucked in a sharp breath as he rapidly assessed his situation.