FROM THE SAME DIRT ▹ seresin ✓

iii. only people watching

Kade would never make it home. Not really. Not ever.

Tonight, the old Kade Kazansky was going to die.

Suddenly Comanche broke into their radio silence — which was never a good sign, "Warhawks, bandits inbound. Double group, hot. Six minutes to intercept."

Well sh—t. Frost's eyes narrowed into the dark night, scowling at the downpour.

"You're team leader, Frost." Apollo, her wingman, softly said, "It's your call."

Six minutes. Six minutes should have been enough time to get in and get out. Key words: should have.

Frost glanced out the glass of her canopy, the darkness enveloping her squadron, only able to make out their shapes when lightning flashed. They were all around her; one on either side with one just behind. They were as ready for the mission as she was. Besides the extensive training they had endured for this, the Warhawks were also some of the best d—mn pilots she had ever flown with. They had one shot at this; this chance would never happen again.

Her team could do this.

"Mission a go. Warhawks, assume attack formation." Making the decision, Frost slowly inhaled through her nose, "Warhawks set. Proceeding to targets."

The Bosnian countryside blurred by, the rain obstructing their vision, only the navigation system guiding them onward. The G forces climbed painfully as Kade led a brutal ingress over the grassy mountaintops and then dove nearly straight down into the steep canyon. The three buildings of the munitions factory sat at the very bottom of the thousand foot drop, empty apart from the cache of Soviet—era weapons. Empty and ready and waiting to be destroyed.

"Targets inbound." Frost eyed the dark earth approaching, flipping up the release latch, "Preparing for drop... in three, two, one. Bombs away."

Group by group, they dropped their three bombs, made a brutal turn, and then they were gone, screaming through the storm and back towards safety. Landing on the carrier in this weather was going to be hell.

The last in their formation, Berlin looked back to declare, "Target hit!"

Across their comms, a storm of cheers and shouts erupted — celebrating yet another success.

Frost exhaled softly, still as cool and collected as ever, "Nicely done, ladies and gents, now let's get the hell out of here."

"Copy, copy, goin' home!" Elvis cheered back, singing like the hounddog he was named after, "My feet are itching to get back home, I've had the desert fever since I've been gone—,"

Frost could practically feel Elvis' driver — the straight—laced, utterly humorless Judge — rolling his eyes at his WSO's antics. As for her, the blonde pilot could feel a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth until Apollo mercifully cut into the second rate King of Rock and Roll's singing.

"So, how many is that now, Frosty? Twenty—three straight successful missions?" She could hear that famous sh—t—eating smirk in the tone of her wingman's voice, "Is that another promotion I see on the horizon?"

Frost fondly rolled her eyes, "Here we go..."

"Promotion means pay raise, baby!" Hurricane always spoke a little too loud, the pilot shouting over their comms, "Does that mean drinks are on you tonight, Commander?"