As the F-2 closed up into formation, Scott waggled his wings in greeting and acknowledgement. He trimmed the A-10's course slightly settling into a close formation with the new arrival.
"Roger that," he replied at her question. "Those folks down there are well overdue for our help; best get there quick as we can. We oughta split up; what say you handle the air targets and I harass the ground-pounders? Keep 'em off my back and I'll make sure you don't take any hits from below".
Corona's voice chimed in, the AWAC controllers' voice calm and reserved as ever. "Good job linking up. I'm designating you as Storm Flight; Heartbreak, You're Storm 1, Ericsson, Storm 2. Stay on course to hit the target area; I'm reading three enemy fast-movers, and two heavies in the air; radar's having problems picking out ground targets, but what I could get on the radio from friendlies indicates three units of infantry supported by medium walkers. Ground forces will mark their positions with IR strobes".
"Roger that," he answered, his voice becoming more clipped and terse. "Ericcsson, let's go; I'll back you up as much as I can on the air targets, but I'll concentrate on the ground threat. Break and engage!"

The snow flurries had grown to a steady snowfall, dropping visibility. Scott switched his targeting systems, the SNIPER targeting pod under the A-10's wing coming to life. The FLIR sensor built into the pod lit the view up into shades of thermal grey; almost immediately he saw the blinking flashes of the allied forces' strobes, and the thermal spots of the enemies' engines, weapons, and exhausts. Streaming flashes crossed the area as fire was exchanged, and flitting traces ghosted through the air as the hostile aircraft cris-crossed the area; even as he watched, they reformed and began diving toward he and Ericcsson's incoming jets.
	"Moving in to engage," Scott announced over the radio, adjusting the A-10's throttle and dropping altitude. He nudged the stick and rudders, the ungainly A-10 moving swiftly onto course at its' preferred low altitude. He thumbed the controller for the SNIPER-XR pod, and bracketed up the nearest spider-like walker that was sending streams of firepower toward the nearby cluster of friendly blinking lights. He jinked and waved the A-10 as it dropped lower, engine howling in the thick air and rearing the jet into a high, banking turn. At its' apex, he thumbed the weapon release, and two Paveways dropped from the wings of the A-10, fins springing open as they glided toward the target. A bank in the opposite direction threw off any anti-aircraft fire, and a spread of chaff and flares dissuaded the insistent blare of the radar warning receiver.
"Bombs away," Scott growled over the radio, circling at low altitude. "How's it going up there?"