Post by Foley on Jun 5, 2012 19:43:24 GMT -5
Air Force Colonel Steve Trevor's mother wanted nothing more for her son then to be a baker. As the three MIG fighters baring the three-triangle flag of Khandaq began the latest salvo from their automatic weapons at his tailfin, he wished for the hundreth time he had done what she wanted.
"This is Flagweaver to USS Columbus, please tell me you copy," Trevor shouted into his radio, "I got three Khandaqi fighters hot on my afterburner! They've already shoot down my two wingman somewhere over Egypt and I'm on my own out here!"
"We read you," came the response, "Whats your location?"
"My location?! Up shit creek, that's my location!," he shouted barely managing to duck under one of the streams of hot lead, "Currently over the ocean between Egypt and Greece, I've already switched to my reserve fuel tank and have burned about half way through that. What the sam hill is your location?!"
Before he could get a response one of the MIG's launched a missle that turned Trevor's wing into molten metal raining over the ocean. A steady and almost unending of cuss words came flying out of his mouth, (he had to breath every few seconds) as he fought to keep from doing a nose plant into the glistening serface of the ocean. His one and only hope was to land the plane rightside up and pray he could get the emergancy life raft out and inflated before the Khandaqi pilots turn him into sushi. For the briefest moment everything in his line of sight, including his plane's controls flashed an unearthly white.
Once his vision cleared he could not believe what he was seeing. A small roundish island was directly ahead of him, one he was absolutely certain had not been there before the flash of light. The other thing he noticed was the three jets that had been taking pot shots at him were no where to be seen, either with his instruments or his eyes. Heeding his mother's sage advice about never looking blessed good fortune in the mouth, Trevor angled his plane towards the island and prayed that he could keep the fast becoming junkpile flying long enough to crash.
The ground came up faster then he had expected and was not as soft as it looked from the air. Trevor bounced around inside the cockpit like a golfball teed off in a tile bathroom while the jet itself made an unearthly screeching noice of stone against metal as it dragged across the ground at breakneck speed. The last thing that went through Trevor's mind before being knocked out was that of just how good his mother's homemade biscuits tasted and he was sure he could duplicated the recipe.
"This is Flagweaver to USS Columbus, please tell me you copy," Trevor shouted into his radio, "I got three Khandaqi fighters hot on my afterburner! They've already shoot down my two wingman somewhere over Egypt and I'm on my own out here!"
"We read you," came the response, "Whats your location?"
"My location?! Up shit creek, that's my location!," he shouted barely managing to duck under one of the streams of hot lead, "Currently over the ocean between Egypt and Greece, I've already switched to my reserve fuel tank and have burned about half way through that. What the sam hill is your location?!"
Before he could get a response one of the MIG's launched a missle that turned Trevor's wing into molten metal raining over the ocean. A steady and almost unending of cuss words came flying out of his mouth, (he had to breath every few seconds) as he fought to keep from doing a nose plant into the glistening serface of the ocean. His one and only hope was to land the plane rightside up and pray he could get the emergancy life raft out and inflated before the Khandaqi pilots turn him into sushi. For the briefest moment everything in his line of sight, including his plane's controls flashed an unearthly white.
Once his vision cleared he could not believe what he was seeing. A small roundish island was directly ahead of him, one he was absolutely certain had not been there before the flash of light. The other thing he noticed was the three jets that had been taking pot shots at him were no where to be seen, either with his instruments or his eyes. Heeding his mother's sage advice about never looking blessed good fortune in the mouth, Trevor angled his plane towards the island and prayed that he could keep the fast becoming junkpile flying long enough to crash.
The ground came up faster then he had expected and was not as soft as it looked from the air. Trevor bounced around inside the cockpit like a golfball teed off in a tile bathroom while the jet itself made an unearthly screeching noice of stone against metal as it dragged across the ground at breakneck speed. The last thing that went through Trevor's mind before being knocked out was that of just how good his mother's homemade biscuits tasted and he was sure he could duplicated the recipe.
