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Vendetta


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#1
scottishace

scottishace

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Vendetta

Prologue

Squadron Leader Alan Stryker shoved his flightstick forward into a pushover that swung his Eurofighter out of the range of the F/22A fighters. Terrorists had acquired some very advanced pilots and computers, and then stolen some F/22A fighters when a shipment to America from a remote factory had been intercepted, and traced back to the secret factory. Every day now the terrorist group, under the name of black stars, churned out more UCAV’s. They had attacked Scotland, beginning a war against the west, but the Scottish had beaten them back.
England hadn’t been so lucky.
When the terrorists had attacked England, they had burned everything from Newcastle to London, using massive firebombs and targeting airfields and fire stations. When England was attacked, Alan had scrambled from Stirling base, and seen the desolated land of his neighbours. He and his squadron had then took their planes, and avenged the rest of Britain as Wales and Ireland had also suffered horrible fates. His squadron, the Saltires, named from the Scottish flag, were engaged in a massive dogfight with two Raptor squadrons.
“Saltire leader, this is Saltire four, the raptors are angling for an escape vector, should we pursue?” Saltire four flew a heavily armed Tornado F3, loaded to the brim with missiles. The new generation of missiles incorporated rockets with the same power, speed, and manoeuvrability of the old generation, but were now much, much smaller. In fact, Stryker’s typhoon carried 35 missiles. A raptor locked on, but his new advanced warning system chimed, and he went into a high G loop that brought him around behind the Raptor. He was thankful the new G-suits could allow the pilot to take manoeuvres of up to 12G. He locked onto the Raptor, and began to pummel its wings with bullets. The raptor split in half, the tenth kill of Saltire leaders’ very short career. Saltire 9 went down in a ball of flame, but he ejected. Saltire leader rolled up and away from a stream of bullets, and noticed the terrain for the first time. Green hills covered in heather, beautiful valleys with clean, cool water running through them, and blue loch’s (lakes) with ducks swimming on them. That reminded him of what he was fighting to protect, and what he was fighting to avenge. This spurred him on, and he slipped behind an enemy squad leader, slid up until he was almost fifty metres away, and fired a stream of bullets. The bullets flew straight up the enemy thrust vectoring nozzles, and the enemy pilot began to go down. He fired bullets into the enemy cockpit as well, rather than risk an enemy squad leader escaping. The raptors cleared the Saltires’ line, and accelerated away.
“Saltire one, this is Saltire two, should we pursue?” said his wingman.
“No, they won’t have enough fuel to escape; they’ll bite the dust in the North Sea. And the scum deserve it, they should never have set foot on our soil,” Saltire leader realised he was about to start ranting, but stopped. As the sole surviving British country, Scotland had a duty to help the world, as Britain always did, although nowadays they worked hand in hand with the American’s. The American’s weren’t supplying Scotland with pilots, but they were however, supplying them with resources and planes. He could understand America’s reluctance to send pilots, as they were tied down with the North Korean conflict and the restart of the Cold War. It was very turbulent times in the world, for Scotland and the USA.











































Chapter 1
The Base


Saltire squad touched down at Stirling base, executing landings that were completely perfect, using the wide runway they had requested that allowed six Eurofighter's to land wingtip to wingtip. They rolled their planes into their hangars, showing skill and ease even with these tasks. The pilots stepped out of their planes, pulling off their G-suits and helmets. Saltire four, William Duffy, walked out of his hangar. He had a hard jaw, short black hair, stubble, and penetrating blue eyes. This was backed up by his tall, lean, muscle-bound body. He was the picture o the perfect soldier, the only problem was he flew in the air force. He had shown promise as a child; he had excelled at PE in Primary school, coming out top of the class in Primary 1, and the best in the school by Primary two. By the time he had reached Primary four they had stopped giving him PE lessons and sent him to a special facility with trainers for PE, and by the time he had reached High School, his teachers decided to stop giving him PE. He jogged towards Saltire seven, his best friend, who had also shown PE skills similar to Saltire four. Saltire Four moved with the grace of a dancer, steady and controlled. He stopped and began to walk, his feet perfectly in line with Grey Seven, whose name was Joey Gellar. Joey had a mop of dark hair, and was the ladies man of the squadron.
“How many kills today Joe?” asked William, or Bill as everyone called him.
“Two. And how many did you kill?” said Joey.
“Three,” they both looked ahead at Saltire leader. He was untouchable in squadron kill records, thirty-six over Korea, and eleven against terrorists. Alan Stryker walked with deliberation, and determination, and it spoke so much about him. In Stryker’s blue eyes, was the most patriotic, most determined Scottish man since William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. They walked along the tarmac, heading for the main building of the base.

They slumped down in their chairs in the crew room. Saltire Five and Eight were playing cards, Stryker was reading a book, four and seven were in the gym which could be seen through the glass wall in the crew room. Nine, who had been recovered was playing Ace Combat Seven, the Osean Alliance on the PS3, a dated console with a dated, though brilliant game. The rest of the squadron were in their rooms, probably resting. Four watched this as he ran full pelt on the treadmill. He had been going for twenty-five miles per hour for half an hour, and he wasn’t even sweating. Seven had left the gym and was at the swimming pool. Four loved Stirling base. It had all the facilities, friendly staff, good rooms, good food everything. But the fact was they were independent now. Several pieces of the air force had broken away from the main air force to avenge Britain, and a lot of businesses and banks were giving Stirling base financial backing, but still, if these businesses pulled out or went broke, Stirling base would be done. But that didn’t look like happening. Particularly weapon companies were backing Stirling base, and that was very, very good as many countries were frantically purchasing weapons in case the terrorists attacked them. Weapon sales had increased tenfold, and now that weapon companies back Stirling base the money was being raked in. Four turned off the treadmill; he didn’t want to push to hard after the fight today, so he decided he would take a shower and get some sleep.

Saltire two, Steve Grimm, kicked his bedside table, hard. He was so furious, and sad. Why was his wife on business in Northern Ireland when the terrorists struck? Why did that have to happen to him? Why did the terrorists bother? Because they are sick, sick people that don’t care about the rules of engagement, said a voice in his head. But that’s happened to a lot of people.
People die in war.
War happens, it’s almost natural. It’s always there, there’s always one waiting to start, hiding in the shadows, lurking like some monstrous beast from the fiery pits of hell. It’s always there, no matter how hard you try to run away and hide from it.
War is always there.
“Shut up, Shut up!” shouted Steve. He wanted to find those terrorists, to kill them, to rip them to shreds and laugh when they scream. But the voice came back.
They are only acting on orders, think of what you have done Steve, killing the enemy, they have families too. All over the world, people feel the same as you.
“Shut it, just shut it,” he said. He hated that voice, that voice of reason, yet it spoke sense to him, trying to draw him out of the blackness of his rage. But he didn’t want that, his rage was the key to his revenge, and he so wanted that revenge, that revenge on the scum. He slumped onto his bed, he was too tired for this, too fatigued, too downright confused to dwell on this.

Saltire 5, Tom Bing, was one of the squadron jokers as was Saltire 8, his twin Sam Bing. They both had unruly red hair, green eyes, and small statures. They were playing cards, blackjack. But without a doubt they would both have some aces, kings, queens, jacks and an assortment of other cards up their sleeves. Tom kept winning with five card tricks. Every time Tom picked up another card, it disappeared if things weren’t going in his favour. And the money they put down, seemed to consist entirely of old, useless coins such as shillings in the casing of a pound. Banter was frequent between them.
“Blackjack,” said Tom, and laid down five cards. He turned away to take a swig of his Irn-Bru, and when he turned back; his 5 had been mysteriously replaced by a six.
“22, you’re burst,” said Sam, smiling. Stryker laughed out loud at this. They played another few rounds, and Tom upped the stakes.
“Five pounds,” he said, laying down a note, what he didn’t tell his brother, was that it was paper money from a children’s play till. Sam slid forward two two-pound notes and two fifty pence pieces, all fake. Sam dropped the fork he had been eating cake with and bent to pick it up and put it away. Tom swapped the cards he had been dealt for an ace of spades and a king of hearts before Sam got back up from under the table. Sam lost miserably, and Tom walked back to his room, ten pounds richer, but in fake money.


Please, tell me what you think of this.
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#2
viper11

viper11

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Good story

keep it coming
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#3
scottishace

scottishace

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Chapter 2.
Gibraltar


Air Marshal Jack Robertson looked out of the window once the explosions had cleared away. Gibraltar RAF runway was in ruins, as were the hangars. He raced to send a signal to Scotland; they needed support before Gibraltar was a charred wasteland.

“Come on, move it!” shouted Stryker, who was already sprinting to his plane. The refuelling plane that was coming with Saltire squadron flew off the runway, and Stryker climbed into his Eurofighter. He started the system checks, and shoved his helmet on. All systems go. He rolled onto the runway.

Stryker flipped his HUD online, and prepared to engage the enemy. Twenty four enemy fighters at their twelve o’clock. “Saltire, two, three and four, target the enemy squadron leaders and second in command use your meteors to dispatch them. Three Four, take the second in command, two and I’ll take the leaders,” He primed his meteor, and placed the enemy leader in his sights. The small box around his target, the enemy leader, turned red.
“Saltire one, Fox Three,”
“Saltire two, Fox Three,”
“Saltire three, Fox Three,”
“Saltire four, Fox Three,” four missiles streaked out, and the four targeted planes dived and released counter measures. The meteors, too smart to follow counter measures, hit the targets.
“Shack on the target!”
“Shack on the target!”
“Shack on the target!”
“Shack on the target!”
Saltire squad confirmed hits, and the enemy turned to intercept. Twenty Raptors accelerated towards Saltire squad. Stryker prepared to give the disperse order. The Raptors launched long range missiles. He waited, and waited, until the long range missiles were almost on the squad.
“Evasive manoeuvres; disperse,” shouted Stryker. Stryker pulled up and spun to avoid a missile, before banking and beginning an upwards spiral. “Switch to sidewinders squad, take out the enemy’s best pilots first. But when Stryker had spiralled up, he had cleared the clouds, and a black stealth AWACs was now visible. Stryker launched counter measures, and the missile lost Stryker, and flew in an upwards course that was destined to hit nothing. The enemy on his tail locked on again, and fired. Stryker had an idea he pulled up sharply, dodging and weaving. He flew at the enemy AWACs, and yawed to the left, missing the AWACs by about a foot. The missile tried to match Stryker’s course, but the missile couldn’t correct its trajectory like Stryker had, and ended up striking the AWACs’ cockpit. The AWACs fell out of the sky like a fallen raven, and it crashed into the sea. Gibraltar hadn’t suffered any bomb hits, and the port, town and airport were still intact, but the RAF airbase would have to be dismantled. Stryker gritted his teeth as he went into a nerve-racking supersonic dive back towards the fight. He pulled up, and the G’s almost killed him, when an enemy locked on with a sparrow. Decreasing speed, Stryker pushed his craft into a left roll, before levelling out and pulling up. An enemy pilot, the one who had fired the sparrow, latched onto Stryker’s tail, and followed him up into the steep climb. Stryker was a sitting duck at this moment, as he was moving slower than the raptor.
Unless…
Stryker slammed on the airbrakes, and his plane slowed down. The enemy plane shot past, and straight into a stream of shells from Stryker’s guns.

William Duffy (Bill) rolled his Tornado F3 away from a sidewinder, and pulled up sharply as an F/22A flashed by, firing its guns. Thud Thud, Bang Bang. Those sounds came from the back of his Tornado; he had taken two hits from shells. Nothing serious, but his plane was trailing black smoke.
“Are you alright? You’ve been hit,” said Jack.
“Nothing bad, I’m not wounded, I should be able to keep this plane in the air a little longer. I’d like to dump it in the sea, but there Raptors over that way, I’d be shot down,” he replied dryly.
“Bail out!” said Stryker, as his first engine shut down.
“There’s nothing but houses down below, I’m not gonna bail out,” he replied. “Do you see anywhere I can drop the plane,”
“The airfield, drop it into the airfield, and bail out, do you understand?” asked Grimm.
“Okay, I’m dropping it over there.” He said, and steered his tornado over to the air field. He turned to his co-pilot, Robert, who was sitting behind him. “Robert, get ready to bail out,”
No reply. Robert was unconscious; the shell shrapnel had punctured the cockpit and hit him in the head. He turned around; he would try to eject Robert. He set auto pilot to guide him to the airfield, and tried to reach Robert’s ejector lever. He couldn’t reach! The Tornado was flying towards the airfield, when the manoeuvring flaps malfunctioned. No chance to change course now. He tried again and again to reach Robert’s ejection lever, and again and again he couldn’t. In one final, last ditch attempt, he pulled out his sidearm, and shot Robert’s ejection lever.

Robert’s chair had just flown upwards and away from the tornado, when the F3 made contact with the ground and exploded. The burning shell of the plane skidded out into the ocean, until it was a few miles away from the course.
There was no other ejection seat in the air.
Grimm howled in sadness, and Joey screamed profanities, but Stryker took out his anger on the enemy. He dodged a sidewinder, and placed a Raptor in his gun sights. He splashed the target with a few shells into the cockpit, and forced his plane into a split-S as an enemy pilot flew under him. The enemy plane realised he was targeted and banked to forty five degrees, and began a long upward spiral. Stryker moved in carefully to cut him off, forcing the enemy pilot to ascend in an ever tighter spiral. And when the enemy had no more room to turn, a sidewinder took him in the belly. The plane exploded, and plunged, burning, towards the ocean. The ten remaining Raptors turned and began to flee, but the Typhoons advanced radar locked onto all of them. Five AMRAAM’s detached from his typhoon, and shot towards the Raptor.
“Fox three, Fox Three,” The Raptor pilots were hit before they knew what was happening. Stryker went to full afterburner and chased them, launching four meteors to take down four targets.
“Fox Three, Fox Three,” The last Raptor, seeing he would be taken down of he fled like this, turned and accelerated towards Stryker.
If the raptor wanted to joust, Stryker would joust.
Stryker waited, until the Raptor was five hundred feet away, and pulled up while detached a sidewinder, not flying anywhere, only working like a bomb. The Raptor flew into the sidewinder and exploded. He ban ked and turned around, knowing his squadron would be doing the same, and began the long, sad journey back to Britain in super cruise mode. Stryker simply engaged autopilot, and sat in his ejection seat all the way back, a swirling blackness of rage and sadness filling his body like an infection. If he felt bad, he wondered how Robert, who was being recovered, or Joey might feel.

Robert was still unconscious, but Joey had disengaged his radio, and was screaming an inhuman sound, like some infernal creature of myth. He continued to scream, until he couldn’t anymore, and sound his throat was so sore he could hardly talk. He then sat with his head in his hands, and wept openly for the first time in many, many years.
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#4
viper11

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And still a awsome story

keep it coming but ad some more diffrent planes
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#5
scottishace

scottishace

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And still a awsome story

keep it coming but ad some more diffrent planes

Yeah, but in the next chapter there is no planes, but in the next, expect MIGs and some SU-35's. And a massive three squadrons on six squadrons dogfight in the chapter after that. That's only if everything I've planned out stays the same though.
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#6
viper11

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Yeah, but in the next chapter there is no planes, but in the next, expect MIGs and some SU-35's. And a massive three squadrons on six squadrons dogfight in the chapter after that. That's only if everything I've planned out stays the same though.


You're the writer
I was giving a idea

But keep the story coming I love how the Raptors are getting beat up by Typhoons (almost as good af couple of cats make in a fleet of super bugs)
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#7
scottishace

scottishace

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Chapter Three

Torture

Chapter Three
Torture

Blackness.
Blackness
The swirling darkness in Bill’s vision cleared, and he found himself in a dark room, tied to an uncomfortable wooden chair. He could have been sitting there for weeks, or for only seconds, he couldn’t tell. He was in his flightsuit, but his helmet, G-suit and sidearm was gone. What had happened? Oh Yeah, he had managed to eject Robert. He allowed a smile at that. Smiling hurt. What had happened after that? He remembered huge burns on his thigh when his plane had exploded, skidding, and then into water! The water had come in through holes in the canopy, and he had been up to his neck in water when someone had pulled him out of his Tornado. And then he had blacked out. He felt like he had just run a marathon, he felt so tired. And then a door opened, spilling yellow light into the dark room. A light came on, and a man walked into the room. He was tall and muscle-bound, with a shaven head and an army uniform on.
He realised he was facing the man behind the terrorists.
The man walked forward, and then stopped a few metres shy of Bill. “You, Scotsman, you’ve killed my pilots, do you know that?” Bill nodded, and then spat on the mans foot. The man made a rude gesture at him, and then turned to leave the room. Bill was left alone for a few hours, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get to sleep. He realised he had been drugged, probably with a large dose of caffeine or something. Another few hours passed, when two burly men entered the room, and untied him. One lifted him up like a sack of potatoes, and dragged him along a brightly lid, white, featureless corridor, until they came to a door. The door slid open, and Bill was tossed in. The men stepped in behind him. Bill was in a dark room, with only one light in the centre. In the centre lay a bathtub, but the water wasn’t warm. It was freezing with broken ice over the top. One of the men grabbed Bill and dragged him towards the bath. He ripped off Bill’s upper flight suit, and then shoved him headfirst into the freezing bath until the water was up to his belly button. Bill struggled, but the men held him down for what seemed like an eternity, before dragging him out by the hair.
“Enjoying your bath?” snarled one of the men while Bill spluttered and coughed. They thrown Bill to the ground, grabbed him by the foot, and dragged him into the corridor, and into another room. The room was identical to the one with the bath, only instead of a bath there was a table with leather straps on it. I looked like something out of Frankenstein! They thrown Bill onto the table, and strapped him on. They then left, and Bill became aware of a sound. It was a trickle, some liquid, somewhere. He lay there for hours, when the trickle started to get louder, and louder, and it was driving Bill crazy. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t, the damn noise was driving him crazy! Occasionally, someone would come in the door, and inject him three times. As he hadn’t been fed, and he hadn’t drunk anything for a long time, these injections must have contained nutrients and fluids. But the other contained caffeine, to allow the effects of sleep deprivation get to him. What felt like a year later, which was actually two weeks someone came in and dragged him into another room, before sitting him down in a small chair.
“You are Flight Lieutenant William Duffy,” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, it came from the same man who had asked him if he had shot down his pilots. He spoke with an accent that William couldn’t identify. “You give me names of pilots in your squadron,” Bill couldn’t be bothered resisting.
“Wing commander Ian Stryker, Squadron Leader Steven Grimm,” but then Bill stopped, he wasn’t about to give out any names. The interrogator turned to a man standing in the corner in the room, completely invisible in the shadows.
“Take him away,”

Bill was taken to a room, and thrown in. He felt the floor; it was hard, damp concrete. Bill scrambled to his feet. If this meant what he thought it meant…
He ran up to the wall and scraped at the bricks and mortar. Pieces of damp mortar fell to the ground, and Bill ran his hand across the roof. Moss grew on the ceiling. This place would flood. Forgetting about his lack of rest, he ran to the closed door and hurled himself against it. Nothing happened. He looked at the small lock in the door, and pulled a pencil from his flightsuit’s pocket. He was very apprehensive and careful, so he always carried a weapon. He twisted the pencil and the led shot out, revealing a small metal blade. He pushed it into the door lock, and began to fiddle with the lock mechanism. The lock snapped and the door swung open. Bill darted out, and ran the length of the corridor, and through a door. There was a man, sitting over blueprints of a nuclear bomb inside the room, which was a plain office with a table, two chairs and several desert eagles on a weapon rack in the corner. Bill stabbed the man in the neck, knowing he was a terrorist, and then cut up the plans. He then grabbed the desert eagles. He strapped two to his thighs, two to his side and held one in his hand. He grabbed the mans’ blood stained shirt, and pulled it on. He raced out into the corridor, and came to a thick steel door with a key card and a fingerprint identification system. The exit from wherever he was! He felt about in his new shirts’ pockets, he found what he was looking for, and pulled out a keycard. He slid it in the lock, and ran back to the man he had killed. He dragged him to the fingerprint system, and placed the dead mans’ hand against the fingerprint scanner. The door slid open, and Bill bolted outside, dragging the body. The facility was underground, but he was standing in a huge expanse of concrete, hundreds, literally hundreds of planes, MIG’s, Su’s, the lot. There were cargo ships with massive bays, loading planes on, getting ready to depart to wherever they were going. Bill looked inside a MIG 31. It had a flightsuit inside, and the engines were on. It was parked next to a runway. Bill dumped the mans body into the frigid ocean, and climbed into the MIG, strapping on the helmet, flight and G-suit. He rolled the plane onto the runway. No one had noticed. He went through takeoff procedures, and plotted a course to Stirling base. He finished takeoff procedures, and hit the skies as fast as he could without wasting fuel on afterburner, and headed to Stirling base. He realised the base was on the North Pole, and that the MIG was seemingly capable of handling more fuel and missiles than the standard type. He hit the throttle and began to cruise home.
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#8
viper11

viper11

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very good

keep it coming
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