Page 57 of Viking

Logan

The cockpit hums with energy, every instrument glowing with purpose as I maintain position off Townsend’s wing. He leads the formation, his voice steady over the comms as he lays it out.

“Stay sharp. Multiple bogeys heading straight for us—vector zero-nine-five. Weapons check and follow protocol. We don’t make the first move unless fired upon. Copy?”

“Viking, standing by.”

“Spartan, copy.”

“Ghost, ready.”

An AWACS—Airborne Warning and Control System—operator chimes in, the voice in my headset clipped and professional. “Raptors, be advised. You’re entering contested airspace. Multiple Su-57s—hostile, unresponsive. Rules of engagement remain clear—hail them, but do not compromise position unnecessarily. Over.”

Townsend doesn’t hesitate. “Copy. Bishop to all aircraft: four bandits, twelve o’clock, ten miles. Weapons hot. Maintain stealth.”

We close in, the dark ocean glinting below as morning light stretches over the horizon. My pulse thrums in my ears. My HUD pings with incoming radar signatures.

Four Su-57s.

They’re looking for us.

Townsend transmits. “Raptor One to unidentified aircraft. This is the United States Air Force. You are approaching restricted airspace. Turn back immediately or you will be engaged. Repeat. Turn back or face engagement.”

Silence.

“Unidentified aircraft, this is your final warning,” Townsend repeats, his tone sharper now. “Turn back or face engagement.”

Still nothing.

My gut clenches. Either they don’t understand English, or they don’t care.

Most likely the latter.

“Guess they’re not here for a chat,” Ryan mutters.

Then my RWR—radar warning receiver—lights up.

“Bishop, I’m getting pings.” Ryan’s voice is sharp now. “They’re sweeping. Actively looking.”

“Copy,” Townsend says, ice-calm. “Hold formation.”

Another warning flashes.

The Sukhois aren’t just looking. They’ve found something.

“They’re locking us up,” Dalton says, tension coiling in his voice.

AWACS cuts in again. “Raptor One, bandits have locked weapons. Hostile intent confirmed.”

A warning tone screams in my headset as my radar screen floods red.

“Missile launch! Break!” Townsend orders, and we scatter.

My training kicks in. I roll hard right, yanking the stick as I push the throttle. The missile chases, its proximity alarm shrieking in my ears. I punch out flares, twisting into a brutal spiral. The heat-seeker chases the decoy, but another missile is already inbound.

“I’ve got one locked on to me,” I grit out.

“I see it,” Ryan says, his voice tense. “Hold tight.”