Ariella responded to each pilots' declaration they were up with a firm and positive 'Roger' as they checked in. As Farid's F-20 formed up on the flight of aircraft, she lead them out of the holding pattern, and gradually increased speed, sending them off on course for the holding tanker over the Mediterranean sea, safely - or so they hoped - off the shores and territorial waters of Egypt and Libya. 

The flight to the tankers' racetrack holding pattern was uneventful and quiet, with the early afternoon sun blazing, and visibility good for miles in all directions. As always, in the changed world post-asteroid and post-flood, the sea was alive with merchant shipping below, and while not choking from horizon to horizon, there were a good number of vessels about. 
Finally, the tanker checked in with them, and Ariella lead the squadron into their holding position for the hookup with the VC-10, the elegant British-made aircraft flying a straight and steady course ahead.
"Pilots, check your planes and prepare for refuelling," declared the tankers' refuelling operation. "By the numbers, now, over"
"Roger, moving into position, over"
She ensured all the comms channels were synced up, with the squadron and the tanker on the same channel, before speaking to all present.
"Okay team. Five, you go in last - your aircraft has the shortest legs, with mine close behind. Three, you're most heavily loaded and had to take off with the most weight and least fuel. Go in first to top up. Two, you follow second. Then three, myself and Five."
She retarded the throttle slightly and took a high aft position of the formation, giving plenty of clearance to the others as they refuelled, talked in expertly by the tanker operator, who lead them on with patiently and quietly encouraging words in a clear tone. 

Finally, her own turn came around, and the Israeli plugged the basket with the probe on the Kfir first try, having conducted numerous refuellings in her career.
Pounds of fuel were pumped over as she held the delta jet steady, waving back as the Englishman in the observation bubble waved to her as she hung in the air behind the converted airliner.
Finally, with a puff of liquid freezing in the air, the VC-10 pulled away and she dropped back, dropping and banking aside.
"Next," she called over the radio, mimicking a waitress. "Musket, you're up"

After the last aircraft had refuelled, the VC-10 crew broke away, and the big jet blinked its' navigation lights twice in farewell, before banking away in a gentle turn back towards the north, and the safer UN territory of Europe. 
For the flight, Ariella banked the opposite way, heading them towards Northern Africa, and their eventual rendezvous with their mission.
"Okay everyone," she remarked over the radio, buckling up her oxygen mask. "We'll be crossing the territorial boundary in approx thirty minutes. Feet dry ten minutes after that. As soon as we cross the beach, we go low altitude and terrain mask until fifteen miles out from the targets for the recon. A sharp pull up to get the best recon picture then, and we split formation. Four and five, you drive in to take the photos, while the rest of us play decoy and crank up our ECM and make a lotta noise to keep them looking the other way. Once the photos are done, we bust out for the coast, and make a mess of the designated sites. Everyone understand the mission?"