[color=6ecff6][b]Ximena Huang[/b][/color]

She did just what she promised, banking away from the rest of the flight to nestle herself high above in the cloud cover. She was lucky that there was any, the remnants of some distant rainstorm having been blown into the Mediterranean but not yet burned away by the incessant rays of the sun. 
 
Good. Everything was in her favor. Assuming she shut up and flew cold Ximena was nigh-invisible to radar, and with her paint scheme she'd be damn hard to spot by the naked eye. By the time anyone realized she existed she would have already sent two thousand pounds of explosive hurtling down at their stupid radar installations. 

[color=6ecff6]"Easy does it now, sit right there you little bastards."[/color] she murmured, the words heard only by her and the passing clouds. She could see them now, the Soviet workhorse radar and a battery of HAWKs attached to a command trailer. Nice. Cozy. Probably had air conditioner, or at least a water cooler. 

[color=6ecff6]"Get nice and comfy, that's right. [i]Pinches ratas culeras,[/i] sit in your fucking hole."[/color]

She had their coordinates punched in, the P19 first on the chopping block. Ximena hovered a finger over the button, plane cruising slow and steady so she could enjoy the moment. She had never been able to shake the rush she got from having such absolute control, the ability to summon death from on high at will. It was the sort of strength kings used to pray for, destructive ability so overwhelming that men made sacrifices to summon it against their enemies. 

She loved this shit. 

[color=6ecff6]"Missile away! [i]Bàibài nǎocán![/i]"[/color]

She squawked it for everyone to hear, cackling with glee at the rushing [i]whumph[/i] of the launch and the split-second delay before impact. The blast ripped apart the antenna, turning a complicated piece of machinery into so much shrapnel. Ximena could see squirters scrambling for cover, a Shilka trundling to life in hopes of catching the attacker. She was out of cover and revealed with no time to hide, no chance to lazily sail around gathering coordinates for a second strike.

Fuck it. Follow the checklist: Balls to the wall, dip the stick forward and crank the throttle, scream down towards the sleepy Italian island at impossible speeds as her body complained at being subjected to sudden extremes in gravity. Take half an instant to marvel at the insanity of her job before pulling up a hundred meters before impact. Hurtle across Lampedusa faster than any creature could dream of, following the curve of the island to buy herself time to line up a shot. See the trailer, pull the trigger, trail a line of twenty-millimeter cannon shot over the ground, burst by burst, until the gun was nearly empty and the command post was blown apart from the inside out. Report a job well done, and bail. 

 
[color=6ecff6]"Radar down, HAWK's dead! Rising before someone gets a shot in at me."[/color]

Next step, tilt the nose up and wipe away some of the blood now dripping from infected eye sockets. Grin madly, drunk on power, and pray for some fucking MiG to try and crawl up her ass so she could rip it to pieces.