November 18th, 06:30 hours
2018
RAF Lossiemouth
Moray
Scotland
It had been two weeks since the attack on the United Nations general assembly building on the shores of lake Geneva in Switzerland, and the following flurry of bombings, missile attacks and other violence.
Even now, this front-line RAF base, part of UNF command now, bore scars. Wreckage belonging to Tornado and Typhoon fighters had been bulldozed aside to keep the runways clear for the scant few aircraft remaining, and for the new arrivals.
Parked in the banked and covered concrete-sided revetments around the base were a motley assortment of tactical aircraft of many nations. All in a variety of highly personalized colours and camouflage schemes, they stood hooked up and ready with APU's attached, weapons on pylons with safety flags attached, and ladders ready and extended under cockpits. Despite this, the aircraft had their canopies closed against the weather, and their intakes covered as they sat in waiting, like sleeping beasts.
The dim light of late winter - thankfully, at least a dry day - on the Scottish morning was trying to feebly beat back the persistent wintertime night, and snow had been plowed aside to keep operations going. Bitterly cold, station crew were wrapped up in thick parkas and gloves and worn stoic expressions, despite the chafing wind.
Inside the operations building, the atmosphere was quiet and tense. The old hands in charge, RAF personnel from before the UNF's formation, had watched with quietly curious interest as the new personnel had been flown in aboard the menagerie of aircraft, awaiting a briefing. Arriving over the previous 24 hours, the group had been a mix of nationalities and histories. The RAF personnel were curious about the development, but ultimately somewhat frustrated as their handful of remaining aircraft were waiting for a chance of their own to strike back instead of flying defensive patrolling sorties. The surplus of surviving pilots were now watching enviously at the new arrivals, whom they had heard through the vine, were going to be going out and hunting the bad guys down.
All of this was plainly obvious to the Ariella Yosef, leader of the new Excalibur squadron. But didn't concern her, simply because it wasn't part of her mission as it stood right now, and she had plenty of other things to think about.
Sitting in a corner of the bases' mess hall she'd taken over as a temporary office while the squadron awaited the order to fly out to land on the aircraft carrier that would be their home, she reviewed the records of the other aviators that were to be under her command.
Each folder was like a treasure chest of jewels, tempered with the occasional flawed or cracked artifact; much like her own history. None of them had ever done anything outright despicable (elsewise they'd not likely be there), but all had their flaws and character traits that stood out, alongside their exemplary moments and strengths.
Making them work together might be difficult, but they all showed in their records that they knew how to fight as part of a unit when the chips were down, and besides - training exemplified team work, and all of them would have exercises under their belt. Not that that helped with egos or personalities, of course.
Taking a break as she laid down the folder of the other Israeli pilot of the group, she leaned back and let out a sigh, allowing her reeling eyes to focus on the ceiling, before taking another sip of the strong yet rejuvenating English Breakfast tea, and hungrily eying up the large plate of cooked breakfast, and picking at another item. Convincing the mess hall chef to give her more had been a challenge, but he'd eventually relented once she'd promised to score him a packet of smokes and a bottle of whiskey when they next got out of the fence.
The Israeli pilot eyed the tapestry of the outdoors as she sipped at the mug, two-handed. The scene provided a canvas for her thoughts as she thought on the upcoming briefing.
She'd met the others in passing, briefly introduced to them, and bumping into them around base a couple of times, and she'd given them her contact details if they needed to find her. However, with only being at the Scottish base for two days, she didn't expect to see much of them. Frankly, she expected most of them to have gone to investigate the nearby town, and spending as little time as possible on the base itself.
In terms of the briefing, she had little to tell her comrades, beyond they would 'most likely' be flying out later that day to meet the Nimue, and to practice multiple landings and take-offs before heading south through the North Sea and the English Channel to meet with a multi-national taskforce scrounged up from whatever ships could be found and head further south. She had the preliminary briefings, but the carrier itself was still delayed in port, following issues with its' fitting out in Rorsyth dockyard. It was underway now, and would be heading their way even now, but would take a while to get there, and to a safe distance offshore, where they could conduct aircraft operations.
Reaching for her breakfast as she set the mug down with an eye to consuming one last hash brown to get her through the last of the folder, she paused as the hairs on the back of her hand stood up. Moments later an alarm shrilled through the PA system in the mess hall, and her phone rang at the same time.
"Yes?" she said quickly, glancing out the window. "This is Colonel Yosef, go ahead".
"Colonel," replied an unfailingly polite and clear female English voice on the other end of the phone. "Your squadron has been recalled for an immediate sortie - a UNF E-3C Sentry has detected a number of aircraft closing from the Northern Approaches, and the course, speed and flight profile indicate a missile attack. Furthermore, they have not replied to hails, and are refusing to divert course. Command has indicated that you should launch immediately, a full briefing will be given once you are airborne".
"Yes, I understand," she replied quickly, feeling her heart rise. "I will be there in a moment. Please keep me updated on the locations of my pilots, and tell them I will meet them at their aircraft. Thank you".
Sliding all the folders into a case, she gulped a half-sip of her tea, and then bolted from the room amidst the mass of running men and women. Spying her XO entering the room, she thrust the briefcase into his arms, gave him a garbled explanation, and ran for the flight ops building.
Five minutes later, she had donned her survival gear, and was in the back of a roaring landrover as it drove her at breakneck speed out to the flight line, where ground crew de-iced the planes and had the Auxiliary Power Units running. A heavy jacket was thrown over her shoulders as she leapt out of the landrover, and dashed across the snowy ground to the waiting Kfir and its' fellows, awaiting her pilots.
As she stood ready, helmet under her arm, air-raid sirens began to sound. The bombers wouldn't be in range of missile attack yet - probably - but the early warning was a signal to get everyone under cover, and get the other remaining aircraft and pilots dispersed and in the air. Ariella felt heat prickled under the thick collar of her flight suit despite the chilly air - things were about to get deadly serious, and she was leading an unknown unit into danger. She had to rely on the skill and professionalism she'd seen in the files, as well as her own to see them through. But the doubt gnawed at her as it always did: would one of them not come back this time? And if they didn't, what would it cost this time?
Clamping down on the fear, she tightened her gloved hands against the surface of her helmet, and turned to face the direction of the base buildings as the APU's rose to a screech around her, feeding power to the hungry aircraft, now waiting for their pilots to leap into action.
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