Lt. Colonel Rosie Lucas shifted her head to look behind at the enemy chasing her. The RWR alarm warbled in her ear as the Osean fighter jet doggedly stuck to her tail.
She grit her teeth, sweat pricking her skin. This guy was persistent, and that was dangerous. The missile warning tone blared and Rosie's vision darkened as she juked left in a 9g turn. She could feel her F-16C shudder and creak under the stress of her maneuvers. But the enemy fighter wasn't shaken off. Rosie rolled her aircraft and went into an inverted dive through a swathe of cloud. She leveled off and swung her head back behind her.
For a moment, she felt relief. The OADF fighter jet was nowhere to be seen. That feeling was shattered when a burst of 20mm cannon fire ripped through her right wing and fuselage. The Osean screamed past as her Falcon twirled through the air, trailing smoke and fire. The warning light panel on her right side lit up like a Christmas tree. Fuel flow, oil pressure, engine fire, and complete loss of control over her right wing flaps and stabs. Rosie wrestled with the controls as her plane screamed down towards the bright green jungle forest. The altimeter quickly dwindled down to double, then single digits within the blink of an eye.
Rosie knew she was as good as dead. 37 years of memories flashed through her brain and she screamed an expletive as all 26,000lbs of fighter jet dug itself into the wet earth and exploded. A bright orange and black mushroom sprouted into the bright blue sky.
"Trigger splashed a bandit!"
"Bajonet! Bajonet, come in!"
Lt. Jessie "Pinky" Sanders sobbed and blinked through tears under her oxygen mask, as she looked over her shoulder and saw the mushroom cloud.
She also saw the twin smoke trail of a OADF F15C Eagle, climbing with full afterburner back up through the thin cloud layer above.
And there was no parachute.
No breach of radio discipline would bring her wing leader back to life.
Which meant, she was alone. Alone, in a damaged F16, trying to limp the long way home, while her superior had sacrificed herself engaging the enemy to let her escape…
Except, she hadn't made it far enough.
Her F16 was leaking oil, alarm lights were lit in the cockpit, the engine, although running, made were unpleasant noises and the entire plane was shuddering. To make things worse, even though she had the trim to maximum, she constantly needed to urge the side-stick slightly left to compensate for a number of holes in her right wing. Holes left by shrapnel of an air to air missile that had missed her plane but exploded thanks to its proximity fuse.
Pinky cursed and once again pushed the dismiss of the blaring "master caution" alarm. She was still flying. She'd make it out of here. Just keep her steady…
The RWR destroyed her delusions. A quick glance over her shoulder told her what she had expected. The twin smoke trail had made a wide curve and then ended in a tiny black silhouette that did not move at all anymore. That meant Bajonet's killer was now coming straight at her.
"Fuuuck!" Pinky wined, before sending a desperate call over the radio. "This is Charlie 2. I have six. Repeat I have six. I'm being painted. My wing leader is down. I am thirty miles south of Sierra Tango."
She didn't take her eyes of the enemy plane. Her fighter was too banged up for crazy manouvers.
A streak of light and a flash told her of the incoming missile before the alarm did. She pulled the F16 into a right curve, then reached for the large yellow bar between her legs.
"Charlie 2. Ejecting." Was supposed to be her last radio call. She pulled it, and with a loud bang, the canopy was blown away and the wind hit her straight in the face.
Her belts were automatically strapped so tight it hurt, and her seat jumped upwards … before it came to a sudden aprupt stop in its rails after mere inches.
A bit of smoke rose from underneath her but was quickly pulled out by the stormwind of onrushing air.
"FUCK!!!!" she creamed, but no one could hear her curse against the sound of the slipstream.
Meanwhile her plane had banked upside down and the nose was pointing steep at the ground. She reached for the side stick which her hand could barely reach and pulled, bringing her plane back to level.
A bright light blinded her, as the missile zoomed right by her head, so close she felt the heat of its rocket engine.
Pinky felt something wet spread in her pants, as she froze solid for three seconds, blinking away the after image of white hot rocket exhaust. In air combat that could be an entire lifetime. When she dared turn her head, she saw the slightly curved trail of the missile that had missed her … dissapear in the distance.
The F15C was much closer now, zooming in on her limping plane with the full force of its two F100 engines. She could see the sun light reflect of its cockpit.
Instinctively, she pulled the stricken F16 into a barrel roll, only a split second before the F15's M61 20mm cannon roared to live, sending a stream of tracers past her.
Pinky felt sick and out of breath. The oxygen system didn't seem to be working anymore. She couldn't hear her alarms over the air noise, but the alarm lights around her MFDs went absolutely crazy.
The F15 zoomed past her, and pulled up into a high Jo Jo. It would come back down behind her once again.
If her plane had been intact, she could have pulled after him and fire a missile up his arse, she thought. But in her condition she couldn't possibly get a lock on. Despite, her limping plane would stall and tumble out of the sky spinning.
Her airspeed was low. Without the canopy the stricken plane had even more resistance, and the engine seemed to have lost even more power. She was a lame, limping duck.
The F15 came again. Zooming towards her. This time its pilot didn't even bother firing a missile. He was going to pluck her out of the sky with his guns. Pinky closed her eyes and tensed, for a second considering if she should just accept her fate and let it end in a fireball as her plane was ripped to shreds by a stream of 20mm depleted uranium slugs. Would she feel much?
Her survival instincts made her push the side stick down hard.
Negative G's pulled her upwards against her restraints. For a split second it seemed like the malfunctioning ejector seat would have mercy with her and rip loose, freeing her. But no, it held on, and the plane took her with it in its dive.
The ground came closer quickly. She didn't need look the vibrating, blurry altimeter, she could see the trees as they got larger. Pinky pulled, pressing herself, and even her seat back down into the cockpit.
She half expected to suddenly see trees in front of her, followed by a violent but at least quick end. Instead, her plane's nose rose back up into the sky and the dark shadow of the trees fell below.
She looked at her seven. But the F15 wasn't there. Then she looked at the other side.
It was almost a perfect formation. The F15 had matched speed, airbrakes deployed. She could see the nose art, an orange wolf, holding a revolver in its teeth. She couldn't see the pilots face, only his toned visor. He was looking her way, had a good look at her shredded right wing, the leaking fluids of her bleeding plane. The constantly deflected ailerons that only barely kept her F16 level. The missing canopy and herself, helplessly strapped into a half-ejected seat, barely controlling her plane.
Pinky glared at him, but of course he couldn't see her face either.
Then he saluted her.
And then he put the after burner back in, pulled his F15C in a steep climb and flew off.
Pinky whimpered helplessly, tears in her eyes. She wasn't even worth getting shot down anymore…
The F15 had turned around and was zooming away behind her. Her plane shuddered. Suddenly there was a nerve wrecking whailing sound from the engine that even overscreamed the wind in her face. Her engine RPM dropped rapidly, followed by a loud bang as the turbine disk finally burst and ripped even more holes in her stricken fuselage. Smoke from overheated oil poured out of her fuselage for a moment, in a thinning trail.
She felt the loss of thrust at the same time as she heard the deafening silence. The roaring airflow was now the only noise.
And Pinky was less than a thousand feet above the trees.
For two long, terrorizing seconds, Pinky had no control over her wreck. With the engine at stand still the fly by wire system had no power. Her stick was as dead as she would be in a few seconds. She could only watch as her plane slowly lowered its nose and banked to the right, ignoring how much she pulled. Even most of the alarm lights were off now. Her instruments dead.
The fireball would have been the kinder way to die she thought.
But then, with a weird whistling sound, her F16's hydrazine powered emergency generator wound to life, and the christmas tree of warning lights started flashing again.
Her ailerons deflected, her elevator pushed the tail down, and her plane leveled once more, stopping her descent.
But this was only going to prolong her death, she realized.
The slower her plane went, the more it banked to the right no matter what.
She had to lower the nose to keep control, trade what little altitude she had against the speed she needed to not loose control.
"Flaps? I should give flaps…"
Survival instincts fought resignation. Prolonged her suffering for a little bit more as the plane slowed down further but had a little bit more lift.
Memories from her first flying lessons, with a single propeller airplane deluded her with false hope. "If you need to go down in the forest, treat the canopies as the ground. Land as if it were a field, as slow as possible."
With tears in her eyes she clung to her old instructors advice, even though noone in their right mind would apply it to a fighter jet. She should have bailed out long ago, if her stupid ejector seat hadn't malfunctioned. Now it was too late. Even if she somehow got out of the plane, she was too low and too fast for the parachute to open.
She knew the plane would bank right again if she pulled the stick, so she took a left turn, as she looked for a place in the jungle that looked like her F16 could somehow survive the impact. But it all looked the same. A sea of chaotic green in all directions. The canopies formed a level plane here, even though it was anything but level if you looked closely.
she pulled a bit to slow the descent. The plane started banking right ever so slowly. She gave a bit of left rudder to counter it.
Some larger tree tops started whisking past her left and right. She pulled the stick more. Extended the flaps fully. Gave more rudder. The nose of the plane suddenly rose, while the F16 started shaking as it stalled.
An impact behind her, as her tail hit a treetop threw her nose the other way. It suddenly rolled left. Pinky tried right rudder. Suddenly, frequent impacts. Her plane shook, rocked, flipped upside down.
She felt a sudden impact, then freefall for a split second - her cockpit suddenly gone. Then a ripping sensation from her shoulders that almost felt as if she was ripped in half. Her parachute was shredded to pieces by tree branches before it had even a chance to deploy.
Very briefly she saw a bright flash to her right, but before her brain could even recognize it as an explosion, something green, brown and big appeared right in front of her. She didn't have time to recognize it as a tree before her entire world got smacked away in a crushing blow of overwhelming red hot pain…
Pinky didn't expect to open her eyes again. Somehow her brain had decided that with the impact everything was over, but the pain was nagging and intense and eventually became too dominant to enjoy blissfull unconsciousness any longer.
The moment she woke up, she coughed. Blood appeared on her lips, and a stinging pain shot through her chest. She knew what that was, she had had a broken rib once before.
She tried to get her bearings. Something was pulling her.
No, she was pulling. She was hanging upside down from the entangled remains of what used to be her parachute lines.
The ground was still a good 20 feet above, while the sky was below, above the dense green forest canopy. The smell of burning kerosene mixed with the dense mixture of rain forest and the taste of blood. Everything felt humid and wet.
Her arm was broken. She realized that as she tried to move her hand and was rewarded by a flash of pain in her forearm. But at least she could feel and move her fingers. The other arm was only bruised, but entangled in the lines that held her weight.
A weak cry of desperation escaped her as she looked up, down at herself.
She couldn't feel her left leg, only a strong pain in her thigh. And that was because her leg wasn't there.
It wasn't the fact that she was bleeding, helplessly and likely would die of starvation, thurst, or blood loss in a few hours, if the fire didn't get to her first. It was the realization that she would never fly again. With her lower leg missing, she couldn't control the rudder, they might let her fly a transport, more likely give her an office job, but she'd never ever sit in a fighter jet cockpit again. Flying was her life. More, her reason of living.
The pain, that was nothing against the pain in her mind.
Her sobbing slowly died down, and eventually she lost consciousness again. Hanging upside down, together with the blood loss had her drifted into the merciful oblivion.
Until a hard impact woke her up again.
It was dark. Almost pitch black, and it was raining in torrents. Water had washed all the blood away. She was lying in a mess of entangled branches, parachute lines and leaves next to a large fallen tree branch. Lightning split the sky and illuminated her for a split second. It also illuminated the slitted yellow eyes of the large black cat in front of her, shone from its gleaming white fangs. An image that immediately pulled her fully awake and her heart beating in an instinctive rush of adrenaline.
"You must be fucking kidding me…" she cursed, as she realized what the cat had been doing. The nagging, burning pain in her other leg told her that the cat had sunk its teeth back in, to eat.
Pinky screamed. Her broken arm was useless, but with the other she reached for her holster that was standard issue with every combat pilot's suit.
Shaking, she chambered the 9mm, and fired.
The cat screached an angry meow, mostly from surprise. Pinky saw the yellow eyes shine in the muzzle flash, aimed and fired again.
The cat screamed in pain, then Pinky heard her run away into pitch black darkness.
Pinky was left behind, shaking, hurting, bleeding. With shaking hands and an armed pistol she listened into the night but heard nothing but the pouring
rain and her own rushing heartbeat.
Eventually her arms got too heavy. I'm gonna lay down, just for a split second, she thought.
She got dizzy.
When Pinky got up, it all seemed like a bad dream. She was sweaty. It was hot. She was naked. Her chest was bruised and it still hurt to breathe, but not as bad.
She tried to get up, but couldn't.
Then she looked around. She was in some sort of primitive hut on a primitive bed. Walls were made from dirt. Dampened light shone in through the door and through cracks in the roof and walls.
It smelled of blood. Around her there were things hanging from the ceiling.
On second glance she recognized the things as meat. Dried meat from some jungle animal, some sort of pig maybe.
And there hung an arm.
And a leg.
Very unsettled by the sight, she tried to rise her head. She was bound to the bed, she couldn't get up. Her right arm was bound to her side.
But her left wasn't. Her left ended in a stump, that throbbed dully and was unprofessionally bound off with some sort of string.
Wide eyed she stared down at her legs.
Or rather, where her legs should have been. She was naked, they had taken all her clothes from her. And her legs both ended in the same type of stump as her arm. She had been reduced to a crippled amputee.
"Christ…." she whimpered. "Who's fucking depraved fantasy is this?!? Why couldn't you just let me fucking die…"
Around her she could see several knifes and other butchering instruments.
Her call was answered when a dark skinned man came in, clothed in only very minimal primitive clothing made from bones and plant parts.
He spoke in a ghuttural voice, but Pinky didn't understand a word.
"Tasty woman who fell from burning sky… Is strong! Is alive! Murgha speak to Chief. Murgha not eat all of woman. Murgha make woman who fell from sky wife! Woman shall make Mugha many strong babies who fly and set the sky on fire. Murgha shall be chief of chiefs!!!"
Pinky didn't understand a word what Murgha said. But when she saw the look in Murghas eyes, she knew her fate…
Ehm… Aircombat + Necrophilia?
Unless you like your steak "well done" I'm not exactly sure how that's supposed to work.
Usually after these fighters crash the report reads somewhat like:
"We were able to identify the body of the pilot, Lt. Colonel Rosie Lucas, after conducting DNA analysis of her left thumb. This was the largest identifiable body part found in the vicinity of the wreckage."
No mind you, there are still some things you can do with a thumb, especially if you're female, but I'm not sure that's what you had in mind.
What would you wanna do? Have them eject, then strafe them with guns while they're on the 'chute?
Even then, 20mm of depleted uranium has a certain tendency to leave a mess (aside from being quite toxic)
This is more or less what I was thinking.>>15597
Those are your stories and i just sugested it. :)
As for how- you got other planes not just jets but even in those pilot can escape his broken bird, land in enemy teritory get shot even when descending on a parachute or crash down with a broken one and be found dead hanging from a tree by a bored horny soldier on a patrol… who decide that a hot big boobed girl hanging from a tree is better then any hole he can get back in base camp.
There are many things you can do. A pilot eject and xxx happens.
You also got copters those crash leave corpses mostly in one piece and a few to chose from (if a little burned up if there was a fire ). XD