Maine, 2100 A single line of tracers goes zooming towards the tall office building, visibly knocking down bricks and generally peeling the workplace open. Ian watches with labored breathing as he waits for his next request. "Ironside-Ironside, this is Harley-Actual, fire on accounting center for effect." The voice rings through Ian's comms, cuing him to tell his gunner to fire. A large roar ruptures from the seventy-six and large chunks of debris are sent flying out of the side of the seven-story building as a response. A single floor and the roof on the side the Sherman hits collapses down onto the floor Ian's tank fired at. "Good hit, Ironside. Standby for further targets." In the background of the comms, Ian could hear a clearly-distressed Russian yelling 'URA-A!" repeatedly, giving him a sense of dread and terrible thoughts about how the man looked. Fighting at night-time was always terrifying, especially in Stoumont during World War Two; the only difference between then and now is that the Germans were generally confined to one area, forward, but the Russians seemed to be all over the place, like an infestation of mice. Ian sinks down into his tank, picking up his cigarette off the side of the turret* and taking a drag from it before leaving his cigarette in its prior position and returning to his prior position of having just his head outside the tank, watching the assault on the accounting building with keen eyes. A voice cuts through Ian's comms once more, "Ironside, move up the street you're on, make sure to get those walkies going before you cruise." Ian presses the switch on his radio collar. "Roger, moving up." With that, Ian raises his torso out the tank and turns to the infantry crouching behind the tank before waving around him in an exaggerated manner, signalling them to move up. The men in dark-green uniforms dart ahead of the tank in a crouched position, watching in front and to their sides, mainly on the strip of shops to their left. The troops are caught off guard as the street is illuminated by muzzle flashes from the left. Dust and pieces of a wall are kicked into the mens' faces as they struggle ot get to cover, one suddenly falling backwards and rolling over once, dead. Ironside springs into action, the turret swings to the flashes and an HE is slung into the building where the fire is coming from. After the explosion, the coaxel is fired for a good ten seconds, just to be sure. The Sherman pulls forward and positions itself in front of the mens' position as they evacuate the area, dragging along the dead man and assisting another guy who was hit in the abdomen. Suddenly, a loud ping sounds from the front of the tank, quickly followed by the bow machine gunner blasting away at a position where he saw the flash from. Ian manages to see two figures get up and run away, no doubt hit at least once or twice in the machine-gun fire. "Hot-damn!" Ian exclaims, seeing what he believes to be a PTRSD AT rifle that was thrown down by the two Russians in their rush to leave. After the quick encounter, several American soldiers run to the alleyway where the Russians were and hastily pursue the direction that the two Ivans ran in. "That's it, pull back towards India, we're not moving any farther than this." As the Sherman reverses towards Allied forces, Ian notifies surrounding infantry and armor that he's pulling back. Peter's legs tense slightly as he watches the dots slowly start to morph into a shape that somewhat resembles an aircraft. Peter had seen that shape before, "Isn't that a British jet?" Peter asks, squinting closely and studying the craft. "No way, Brits aren't supposed to be here for another month or two." The squad-leader, Lloyd, says, eyeing the same dots Peter does. They had already checked in several times with Command to see if they had any friendly flights in the area, to which Command told them negative. For the last couple of minutes, Peter and his squad had been trailing these strange jets for the past several minutes, closing in closer and closer with every couple of seconds. By now, they can see the silver paint with a darker shade on the wing and vertical stabilizer. "Shit, they're Russians, stars on the wings!" Carl fires off through the radio, easing his plane with the rudder to line up a shot. Before Peter knew it, everyone started shooting at once, sending one of the strange jets rolling and spinning towards the Earth in a flaming ball, and everyone else maneuvering. Peter realizes what's happening just as a Russian banks in front of Peter, causing him to frantically slam the trigger and open up with the fifties. The Russian plane suddenly jerks right, nose choosing to point downward more-so than up, as it continues to roll uncontrollably, critical damage to the right wing. The middle-brother pulls up, immediately gaining altitude to avoid turn-fighting or really engaging with any other Russian plane immediately. 'Give it time,' He thinks to himself, scanning below him for any targets. "Carl, check-six-check-six!" Lloyd rattles over the comms, causing Carl to pull hard right, the P-80 shaking as Carl maintains just enough energy to keep the jet from stalling. Peter does a wide, left bank, keeping an eye on which jets are going where. Suddenly Peter spots a Ruskie a couple of hundred feet below him, cuing him to roll inverted and pull, diving. "Going in, Ruskie at two-o'-clock!" And with that, Peter goes quiet, rolling over and concentrating hard on the Russian. The Russian visibly deploys his airbrakes, two large flaps deploying from the side of the fuselage, causing the P-80 to zoom over, not a shot taken. The Russian immediately applies WEP and darts for Peter. The anxious brother looks back just in time to spot the Russian gain some speed and quickly realizes what to do; the P-80 pitches up, using the speed it gained to heave itself higher and higher above the Russian. The single-engine jet begins to loop at the peak of its climb; the Russian aircraft, slower, bulkier, and with a higher stalling speed, begins to slowly spin around and around, the nose acting as a center point for the spiral. Peter's P-80 rolls inverted and his nose points directly towards the spiraling metal machine. The fifties chatter a swarm of bullets into the jet, causing black smoke to spew out of the left-wing engine and shredding one of the red stars. Peter pushes his nose down, diving for the deck after realizing how low his fuel is. Without any other engagements, he'll be able to make it back to base and circle the airfield three times exactly. "I'm out of fuel, I need to R-T-B." Peter says, his words returned by nobody. A voice cuts through Ian's comms once more, "Ironside, move up the street you're on, make sure to get those walkies going before you cruise." Ian presses the switch on his radio collar. "Roger, moving up." With that, Ian raises his torso out the tank and turns to the infantry crouching behind the tank before waving around him in an exaggerated manner, signalling them to move up. The men in dark-green uniforms dart ahead of the tank in a crouched position, watching in front and to their sides, mainly on the strip of shops to their left. The troops are caught off guard as the street is illuminated by muzzle flashes from the left. Dust and pieces of a wall are kicked into the mens' faces as they struggle ot get to cover, one suddenly falling backwards and rolling over once, dead. Ironside springs into action, the turret swings to the flashes and an HE is slung into the building where the fire is coming from. After the explosion, the coaxel is fired for a good ten seconds, just to be sure. The Sherman pulls forward and positions itself in front of the mens' position as they evacuate the area, dragging along the dead man and assisting another guy who was hit in the abdomen. Suddenly, a loud ping sounds from the front of the tank, quickly followed by the bow machine gunner blasting away at a position where he saw the flash from. Ian manages to see two figures get up and run away, no doubt hit at least once or twice in the machine-gun fire. "Hot-damn!" Ian exclaims, seeing what he believes to be a PTRSD AT rifle that was thrown down by the two Russians in their rush to leave. After the quick encounter, several American soldiers run to the alleyway where the Russians were and hastily pursue the direction that the two Ivans ran in. "That's it, pull back towards India, we're not moving any farther than this." As the Sherman reverses towards Allied forces, Ian notifies surrounding infantry and armor that he's pulling back. Peter's legs tense slightly as he watches the dots slowly start to morph into a shape that somewhat resembles an aircraft. Peter had seen that shape before, "Isn't that a British jet?" Peter asks, squinting closely and studying the craft. "No way, Brits aren't supposed to be here for another month or two." The squad-leader, Lloyd, says, eyeing the same dots Peter does. They had already checked in several times with Command to see if they had any friendly flights in the area, to which Command told them negative. For the last couple of minutes, Peter and his squad had been trailing these strange jets for the past several minutes, closing in closer and closer with every couple of seconds. By now, they can see the silver paint with a darker shade on the wing and vertical stabilizer. "Shit, they're Russians, stars on the wings!" Carl fires off through the radio, easing his plane with the rudder to line up a shot. Before Peter knew it, everyone started shooting at once, sending one of the strange jets rolling and spinning towards the Earth in a flaming ball, and everyone else maneuvering. Peter realizes what's happening just as a Russian banks in front of Peter, causing him to frantically slam the trigger and open up with the fifties. The Russian plane suddenly jerks right, nose choosing to point downward more-so than up, as it continues to roll uncontrollably, critical damage to the right wing. The middle-brother pulls up, immediately gaining altitude to avoid turn-fighting or really engaging with any other Russian plane immediately. 'Give it time,' He thinks to himself, scanning below him for any targets. "Carl, check-six-check-six!" Lloyd rattles over the comms, causing Carl to pull hard right, the P-80 shaking as Carl maintains just enough energy to keep the jet from stalling. Peter does a wide, left bank, keeping an eye on which jets are going where. Suddenly Peter spots a Ruskie a couple of hundred feet below him, cuing him to roll inverted and pull, diving. "Going in, Ruskie at two-o'-clock!" And with that, Peter goes quiet, rolling over and concentrating hard on the Russian. The Russian visibly deploys his airbrakes, two large flaps deploying from the side of the fuselage, causing the P-80 to zoom over, not a shot taken. The Russian immediately applies WEP and darts for Peter. The anxious brother looks back just in time to spot the Russian gain some speed and quickly realizes what to do; the P-80 pitches up, using the speed it gained to heave itself higher and higher above the Russian. The single-engine jet begins to loop at the peak of its climb; the Russian aircraft, slower, bulkier, and with a higher stalling speed, begins to slowly spin around and around, the nose acting as a center point for the spiral. Peter's P-80 rolls inverted and his nose points directly towards the spiraling metal machine. The fifties chatter a swarm of bullets into the jet, causing black smoke to spew out of the left-wing engine and shredding one of the red stars. Peter pushes his nose down, diving for the deck after realizing how low his fuel is. Without any other engagements, he'll be able to make it back to base and circle the airfield three times exactly. "I'm out of fuel, I need to R-T-B." Peter says, his words returned by nobody. Peter clenches his teeth hard as he feels the P-80 jolt, a loud popping noise hitting his ears from somewhere on his P-80. The middle brother applies slight left rudder as he feels the plane trying to pull right. The only thing that gives Peter any hope at all is the sight of two squads of P-80s rushing in the opposite direction of him, obviously off to help his squad. As Peter approaches the runway, he slowly lowers the throttle, making sure not to rush as he brings his speed down lower and lower. Once he gets down to a nice descent speed, Peter hits the gear toggle, causing a loud grinding noise to emit out of the bottom of his jet and his mouth to slowly open in shock. Peter tears his oxygen mask off, not realizing he had it on the trip back, and immediately begins to run through his belly-landing procedures, raising his flaps back and trying to tighten his harness more-so than it was before. "Mayday-mayday, this is Sleuce-twenty-one coming in for a belly-landing. Procedures have been done, coming in for touchdown." Peter says, voice almost giving out due to the rush and suddenness of the entire event. The tower confirms his transmission and tells him god bless you, for they can't do much about the situation now. Suddenly, twelve feet above the runway, the nose dips, causing Peter to pull back hard on the stick, which causes the tail to slam against the ground. A loud ripping noise comes from the tail of Peter's plane and Peter realizes that he's starting to spin on the runway, empennage completely separated from the fuselage. Peter's hands shoot up to the sides of the canopy as his left wing is torn from the plane, spilling jet fuel that quickly catches fire across the runway before coming to a stop. Peter leaps out of the seat after unlatching the harness and barely gets a step out of the jet before the inline fuel tank explodes, slinging burning jet fuel all over the craft and Peter. Most of the fire burns out the moment it touches Peter, but a thick ball of it that hit Peter's leg still rages on. The pilots drops his parachute and immediately struggles to get out of his flight pants. By now, the emergency crew has pulled up to the wreck and two men with fire extinguishers rush to put out Peter while three other men work on the fire from the P-80. Soon enough, both Peter and his jet are put out and all that is left to do now is to patch up what was broken. Peter stands by the row of windows facing the runway in the on-base hospital, waiting for his squad-mates to come zooming back down at any second. An emptiness stirs around inside Peter as he replays that shot over and over again in his head, the Russian's plane spinning uncontrollably to the ground, that was his first aerial kill in the new war, hopefully he won't forget it.