Robinson nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. They were almost home. “We won’t cause trouble.”
“Charlie-one, you have four enemy fighters, closing in,” the controller reported. “Suggest that you engage.”
“I would never have thought of that,” Flying Officer Cindy Jackson sneered, as she pulled the Eurofighter Tempest into an attack vector. Four other Typhoons followed her; the remnants of the RAF seemed to consider her a pretty good flying officer, even if they didn’t share her high opinion of herself. The Russian fighters were approaching at high speed, forcing her to turn to engage them; if they had a chance to commit themselves to a bombing run, they could wreak havoc. “Charlie flight, take your targets and dance!”
She fired a single ASRAAM, all-too-aware that the RAF was running short of advanced weapons, at the lead Russian aircraft. The Russian tried to evade, failed, and was blown out of the air by the missile; two more fell before the final aircraft could launch its own missiles towards one of the Typhoons. They were still having problems tracking the Tempest; their Mainstay aircraft were holding well back, terrified of the CADS on the ground and the SAS officers that had scattered through the countryside, armed with Stingers and other SAM missiles. Other Russian aircraft appeared, launched their missiles from long range, and then retreated, forcing her to hold back her fliers to prevent them from giving chase. The Russians not only had a massive SAM belt established to protect their own forces, but they had also far more aircraft and missiles; every time she fired a missile, she dug into a rapidly-dwindling stockpile. Worst of all, the Russians had pulled a surprise out of their bag; their countermeasures against BVRAAM missiles had been improved to the point where guaranteeing a kill was much harder.
“Several more Russian bombers approaching on attack vector,” the controller injected, interrupting her private thoughts. She cursed as one of her pilots was blown out of the sky by the final Russian aircraft before it fled the battlezone; the Russians didn’t have to stay and fight. The RAF was badly overstretched; the Russians could keep dancing in, forcing her to burn vital fuel and missiles to react, and then duck back under their SAM belt. Heavy Russian bombers had been trying to raid the Royal Marine positions on the ground; only the Dutch damage to their own dikes had prevented heavy Russian armoured units from reaching Ostend. “Engagement vectors…”
“I know,” Cindy snapped. She yanked the Tempest around and raced for the bombers, hoping that they wouldn’t sense her presence until it was too late; there was so much radar energy boiling around that she had no idea just how well the Tempest’s stealth systems were holding up under the pressure. They might see her coming, or they might not react in time to prevent her; the ageing Bears wouldn’t have the best equipment if the Russians were using them to draw out British fire. “Closing in…”
The lead Bear launched a spread of missiles; some targeted on the Royal Navy ships and transports, some targeted on the beach defences. Cindy cursed and activated her cannon; the Russians wanted her to spend her missiles on the Bears, but she had only one missile left and she didn’t dare waste it. The Bears seemed unaware of her presence, then she saw the tail-gunner swinging up to target her; she cursed again and fired a long burst into the rear of the Russian aircraft, sending it crashing down towards the sea. The others were scattering now, their deadly cargo launched; she took down two more before twisting away and allowing the others to escape. She was down to only a few rounds left and she would need them later. Other Russian fighters were closing in on her position. If they hadn’t know where she was before, they certainly knew now…
She hit the afterburners and the Tempest flashed away from the Russian aircraft. They didn’t bother to give pursuit; they were watching as the Russian missiles lashed down on the ships, some of the warships successfully covering themselves with their CIWS, others being hit and sunk; Cindy had heard that the Russian submarines had been chased everywhere around Britain, perhaps in preparation for another coordinated missile strike. The Royal Navy had deployed almost all of its remaining ASW units to the evacuation effort; the Russians seemed to have picked up on the hint and kept their own submarines away.
The sky lit up as a massive liner, pressed into service, exploded. Cindy had wondered if she would ever have the chance to sail on the MS Queen Victoria; she would never have the chance now as the explosion tore the ship apart, along with the people who had been packed onto her decks. The slaughter would be awesome, she knew; the Royal Marines would have lost dozens of their people on the lost ship. The Russians had something else to answer for…
“I require a top-up,” she said, as the Tempest headed away from Belgium. She had been fighting for what felt like hours and it was starting to show; the RAF had too few planes and too few pilots. The fuel supply on her aircraft was running low; she needed to refuel or head back to base, one of the handful of airfields and airports that the RAF had managed to press back into service. “Control; please supply vectors to the tanker…”
“Understood,” the controller said. The French commander of the aircraft was cute; Cindy had been hoping to make his acquaintance at a later date. He wasn’t technically a squadron-mate, after all. “Flight vector is… fuck!”
Cindy saw it all on the download. Five missiles had been launched, from Britain; aimed at the tanker and its three escorts. The tanker had been over British soil, it had been believed to be safe; surprised, the escorts took too long to react, or to drop flares. Two missiles found their target and impacted directly with the tanker, sending it crashing to the ground in flames. The explosion would have been heard for miles!
“No,” she said, unable to face the cold knowledge of what had happened. It might have been a disastrous case of blue-on-blue, friendly fire, but she doubted it; the day that the Russians started flying tankers over British soil was the day that the war was lost. It had to have been a deliberate act; someone down on Britain was working for the Russians… and had just pulled off the most successful strike of the war. “Control…?”
There was no choice, she knew; the RAF would have no choice. “All aircraft, retreat,” Air Marshall Bentley said, before the AWACS could say anything. His priority would be to save as many aircraft as he could before they started to run out of fuel. The Eurofighters, whatever their other virtues, were fuel-guzzlers. “Return to the nearest airbase and await further orders.”
“Bastards,” Cindy hissed, as she swung the Tempest around. The RAF had ceded control over the battlezone to the Russian Air Force… and that meant that the people on the ground were fucked. “Real bastards!”
“I just had an update from the headquarters,” Captain Bellamy said, grimly. “The RAF has been driven out of the battlezone.”
“We knew that it would happen,” Marine Colonel Patrick Trombly said, as calmly as he could. They’d pulled out over a thousand soldiers from several different countries, including six hundred British soldiers; the thought of just how many had died in the fighting, or remained trapped behind enemy lines, made him wince. The RAF had held its own in the fighting, but everyone had known that it was just a matter of time. He’d pulled out most of his vehicles hours ago, just to ensure that they got home. “What’s the latest from the SAS?”