FROM THE SAME DIRT ▹ seresin ✓

iii. only people watching

"Hell no." Frost grinned into her mask, arching one sharp brow, "The last time drinks were on me, you all got sh—t—faced, dropped me with a bill over three hundred bucks, and I had to be designated driver."

Hurricane cackled loudly, "Tough sh—t, baby. Sucks to be the best of the best, huh?"

"Look alive, everybody." Judge cut in, "We got company, eleven o'clock."

At the front of the formation, Frost followed her wingman's directions, squinted through the rain, and found two bogeys inbound at her left side. A strange feeling, one she wasn't used to, crept up from her stomach to her sternum and into her throat. She wasn't sure what it was, exactly, but it felt a lot like... dread.

Apollo irritatedly murmured, "There's our friends."

"Too late, a—sholes!" Elvis sang mockingly, hooting and hollering.

Too late was right. The bombs had been dropped, but the mission wasn't over — not until they were all safely back on deck. Frost found her muscles coiling, shoulders straightening, preparing for a fight, but there was just... nothing. The bogeys weren't on the offensive. They were going slow and steady, even though they saw them, even though they had just blown their plant sky high. Something was very wrong with this.

A frown fought for control of her mouth, "I don't like the look of this, guys. Let's turn and burn."

"Aw, come on, Frost, we can take 'em—,"

Suddenly a squadron of jets blasted through their formation, tearing through the storm clouds below in a wild attack. Frost swallowed a yell and jerked her plane to avoid collision, the formation scattering at the sudden bombardment. The squadron broke in every direction as more and more planes came through the clouds, rolling in and locking onto them.

"Oh sh—t!"

"Five more — seven — no, nine more contacts." Frost called tightly, "2—8—0 at ten miles."

"D—mn it!" Apollo snapped breathlessly, fighting to avoid missile lock, "Where did they come from?!"

She grit her teeth in a wince, hissing, "We're outnumbered. Fall back, fall back now!"

It was eleven against four. Fall back didn't matter, it wouldn't save them, but she didn't have any other choice. It was going to be a battle all the way back to the carrier. At twenty—eight thousand feet, the planes circled each other wildly, snapping past one another like ends of bullwhips. They came down in a section attack with their cannons blazing. From her cockpit, everything looked choppy: bogeys slid past at incredible speed while missiles and guns blasted as planes scrambled for position. It was a brutal dogfight, more intense than Frost had ever seen, missiles and flares and gunfire going in every direction. It was like a mad hornet's nest, jets like bees swarming all over the sky.

"Talk to me, Apollo!"

"Break right, Frost, break right! Ten o'clock, ten o'clock!"

"Warhawk One defending—!"

"Judge, two more on your six—,"

"Apollo, same on your nose!"

"Elvis, tally, tally!"

"Warhawk Three defending!"

"Talk to me, Hurricane—,"