FREEDOM HAS A VOICE

Chapter 5: Our Skies 1

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, WASHINGTON STATE, SEATTLE, DECEMBER 10TH, 2025

(3RD POV)

A fleet of F-16 fighter jets dashed over the sky in the face-burning December frost; the engines of the collective F-16s roared through the vast pale blue sky, and the intimidating warcry of the jets loitered in the sky for all to hear, even after the departure of its masters. The ground below them concealed behind large, white, fluffy, stagnant clouds that morphed into each other or split apart.

Inside the cockpit of one of these F-16s, Airmen Second Lieutenant Matthew Rockaway of the 80th Fighter Squadron gripped his flight stick tighter, his eyes darting across the extensive array of mechanical instruments that lined the cockpit walls, a kaleidoscope, bright green graphics inside his helmet displaying attitude, weapons status, and other necessary HUD information.

"Vector bearing 1-9-0, descension to 13,000 feet," the calm collective of Voice of Captain Abraham Scottson said over the squadron net and into Matthew's helmet.

The Airmen's gloved hand pushed the flight stick forward with a gentle touch, his squadron chaperoned by a fleet of other state-of-the-art jets that did the same. The man turned his helmet clunky head in every direction of the near 360 cockpit view and reveled at the sight before him, his blue eyes scanning the shower of grey metallic beasts that descended upon the Earth in awe

Everyone and their mother were here from F-15s, Super Hornets, B-1 bombers, and a few more advanced jets, such as the F-25s. Their pin-shaped noses slashed through the air with ease.

As the fighters descended, the bombers stayed on course, the F-25s forming a protective barrier around the Dorito-shaped bombers in the form of a charging spear. Hundreds of the aircraft remained soaring over the sky, their sleek sharp angler bodies became smaller the further they flew away to accomplish their separate task.

Turbulence from the descension scarcely shook the jet of the Airmen as they parted through the clouds, their cockpit windows bathed in a flash of kaleidoscopic white before they broke through and entered the fray that encompassed the land, air, and sea.

Explosions detonated with such powerful force from the ground that the shockwaves made each fighter jet trimmer and shake as they soared over the battlefield.

Small eruptions echoed throughout city streets that rocked homes and skyscrapers, plumes of smoke formed hundreds of black tendrils that reached out for the fighter pilots thousands of feet in the air.

Devastation reigned supreme over the metropolitan area as the intense fighting that took place brought buildings of glass and steel to their knees, to rain more destruction in the evident war that occurred before the fighter pilots' very eyes.

M1A2 Abrahams could be seen leading refractory spearhead charges throughout city streets as soldiers used the 70-ton war machine as cover, while other tanks were far and distant, their 120mm canons used as artillery to blast through buildings housing enemy fighters and reduce them to rumble.

The tan coloring of the mechanized divisions fighting amidst the chaos conflicting with the green and grey backdrop of the devastating destruction taking place, making them easily identifiable.

Bradleys and an assortment of other support fighting vehicles lined the state highways and formed a defensive firing row, barraging the enemy in a maelstrom of lead to send the invaders back from whence they came.

The force of firing the 25mm canon sent the Bradleys back with each rapid shot taken, kicking up dust in the air that was thrown toward the wayside.

A Top each fighting vehicle, there lay adorned old glory, her resounding red and white stripes tattered and torn beyond all belief, the end of her knitting reduced to thousands of singlur flying threads in the wind. While bullet holes riffled through her blue-speckled star face.