July 15, 2035, Altitude 10,000m, North of Khabarovsk, Russia
The sun dips low, painting the sky with fading blue as dusk nears. Checking the time, it's past 18:00 local. At this latitude, farther north than Hokkaido, night lasts barely eight hours, bookended by long twilight. The sun, still glaring through the canopy, won't vanish below the horizon for a while yet.
One hundred twenty Japanese jets, marked with the rising sun, slice through the reddening sky. Below, clouds glow white under the sun's rays, parting to reveal a deep green, almost black, forest stretching endlessly. The alien scale of Russia's landscape briefly distracts the pilots from their first real combat as Japan's military.
"Japanese forces… this is KXK… Komsomolsk-na-Amure… do you read?"
A voice, drowned in static, snaps the pilots back from the golden-lit vista of clouds and earth. The severe noise, despite the ground station's proximity, signals intense enemy barrage jamming.
"Jake 01, Japan Air Force 201st Squadron. Heavy static, but readable."
"You're… in enemy… range… scatter immediately… repeat… scatter now!"
The garbled warning from KXK control stuns the 120-jet formation. The enemy's combat zone is 200 kilometers away. Why are they in range? Why scatter now?
"KXK, did I mishear? In range? Combat zone's still ahead."
"Quit yapping… break, you idiot… want to die, Japon…ski?!"
Komsomolsk's furious shout is eclipsed by a sudden explosion within the diamond-shaped formation.
"Nagata!"
"All units, break! Break!" Jake 01's desperate cry shatters the formation.
"Enemy weapons… powerful lasers… range… 200 klicks… easily."
Japan's optical weapons are experimental, not operational. Pilots know of them only from reports, lacking real-world understanding. Facing them now, they misjudge. Jake 01 grits his teeth, cursing the loss of a jet to their naivety.
"All units, fly erratically, approach combat zone fast."
Unlike missiles or cannon rounds, lasers strike instantly, even from hundreds of kilometers. The pilots learn this brutally: in a dogfight 200 klicks away, a locked-on target is as good as dead. The 200-kilometer dash, traversable in five minutes at full afterburner, feels impossibly vast.
"All units, ready, FOX 2. Meteor."
At 150 kilometers, Jake 01 issues the order. Two more jets lost, the formation now 117 strong. Mita, thumbing the weapon selector, aligns the HMD cursor to the Meteor BJ in the internal bay. Enemy jamming overwhelms, obscuring targets; no markers show on the HMD. But the Meteor's lock-on-after-launch and fire-and-forget capabilities allow it to seek targets mid-flight, though jamming cripples the squadron's networked multi-target tracking.
"All units, FOX 2, FOX 2."
At Jake 01's command, nearly 300 long-range missiles streak from the 117 jets, carving white trails toward the combat zone. Ninety seconds later, they enter the fray, weaving to lock onto targets. Explosions bloom, but far too few for 300 missiles. Hit rate: barely 10%. Mita grimaces billion-yen missiles, wasted.
"Engage. Break, break."
At 50 kilometers, Jake 01 orders combat entry. Jamming garbles comms, but short-range radios hold. Half the Type 21 short-range missiles, fired at 70 kilometers, fare poorly. The enemy's stealth and impossible evasive turns physically absurd foil them. Missiles lose targets, veering off to burn out. Guns, it seems, are the better bet.
The combat zone is a chaotic ballet of hundreds of dogfighting jets, white contrails twisting like time-lapsed vines, punctuated by red bursts of flame. Mita, palms sweaty, grips the stick and dives in.
"Mare 01, behind you! Break!"
A wingman's warning. The HMD's rear radar shows nothing. Mita rolls left 90 degrees, pulling a tight turn. Blood drains to his feet under crushing G-forces, vision blurring, consciousness fading.
"FOX 3! Bingo! Got him!"
A wingman's triumphant shout pierces Mita's fading awareness. He levels out, G-forces easing, blood returning.
"Mare 05, report. How'd you get him?"
Panting, Mita queries the wingman who saved him.
"Tailed the guy on you, slithered in from the right, kicked the rudder left to slide. Hit him from behind at an angle. One burst. Yeah, they're sluggish, like they freeze."
"Got it."
A blue jet flashes past, three sleek, silver enemy craft in pursuit.
"Testing it. Cover me."
"Mare 05, copy."
"Mare 06, copy."
The blue Su-27, hounded by three enemies, is panicking, weaving desperately but losing speed. It pitches nose-down to 6,500 meters.
Mita shoves the stick right and pulls, rolling inverted into a screaming dive. Throttle slammed past afterburner, the F3B plunges through low clouds. The HMD's horizon line dances wildly. The power dive closes the gap. At this range, stealth or not, enemy markers lock on the HMD. As one crosses his view, Mita yanks the stick, aligning the gunsight, and fires. The 20mm six-barrel Gatling roars, orange tracers arcing into the target. Bullets rip through, scattering debris. A gray puff, then an explosion. Mita stomps the rudder, sliding the nose. Another enemy enters the sight. He fires again. Six thousand rounds per minute tear into it, another gray puff, another blast. The third enemy vanishes in a blink its hypersonic agility on display. Stunned by the speed, Mita recalls Russia's warning: keep moving. He banks hard, climbing.
"Spasibo, Japanski," the Su-27's pilot gasps.
"Udachi. Don't die."
Regaining 5,000 meters, Mita rejoins his covering wingmen.
"Nice work, boss," Mare 05 says.
"Two in one pass, damn," Mare 06 adds.
"Hasegawa, you were right. They linger in the sight before dodging. Catch that pause, and it's like shooting drones."
Locked on, radar blaring, any pilot would jink, scan, or counter. Not these enemies. The two Mita downed flew straight, begging to be hit, like drones. A lag, perhaps remote control, Mita muses.
"Only you'd call them drones, boss. Not that easy. Drones don't shoot back."
They banter, but the triangle formation, Mita at the tip, weaves constantly to evade locks.
"My turn. Mare 06, approaching target. Cover me."
"01, copy."
"05, copy."
Mare 05 surges past, charging four enemies tailing two J-30s. The J-30s weave and scissor, then split. One dives, accelerating. The other climbs, bleeding speed.
Mita sighs, eyeing the climbing J-30's contrails. A rookie mistake: panic, pulling up, losing speed and maneuverability. The fake F-35 knockoff can't recover. Sure enough, an enemy halts mid-air at their altitude, blasting the J-30 into fragments. Mare 05 pounces, downing one enemy instantly, then yaws with rudder alone to shred another.
"Bingo!"
The enemies chasing the diving J-30 are too far to pursue. Mare 06 slows, reforming the triangle with Mita leading.
"Not bad, Wakabayashi. Two kills," Mita says.
"Plenty more to go," Mare 06 replies.
"Right. Still got ammo. Need to test Type 21s at close range."
"Five behind! Break! Break!" Mare 05 shouts.
The three F3Bs scatter, diving and banking hard.