“Get those two off the deck immediately! I don’t want to waste any time,” the admiral commanded into the phone. The call went directly to the speakers in the helmets of the pilots.

“That’s our cue,” Aslan muttered into his helmet as Drifter went ahead and drove the plane onto the launching strip, waiting to be catapulted into the air. He fired the engines of the F-18 Hornet, the roar just another routine sound to anyone on board, and saluted the crewmen on the deck. One of the men just ahead of him signaled them for take-off, and after the two sat back in their seats they were launched off the aircraft carrier. Crewmen on the deck leaned forwards to avoid the wings of the jet cutting off their heads, no longer phased by the take-offs. The large, double engined plane dipped down slightly as it fell off the carrier, barely out of sight as it began its ascent into the air. Combat with the other pilots that were already engaged in the battle could be heard through the speakers, and it didn’t sound like they were making much progress.

“This is Drifter and Aslan going supersonic, we will be there in 90 seconds,” Drifter stated calmly into the microphone fitted to his helmet. His real name was Alex Bernard, only his call sign was Drifter. He acquired the name from his army recruitment officer when he first joined the navy. When he signed up, the naval officer had asked him his name and age but he was so distracted by the jets flying overhead that he wasn’t paying attention. He dubbed him as Drifter right then and it just stuck from there, and besides, he liked the name. He felt like it described him perfectly; smooth and easy just like his flying.

He had this demeanor about him that could make anyone feel safe. Even as young as he was at 25 years of age he had the smarts to know what to say and when to say it, and this was definitely one of those times. His voice was smooth as velvet, yet firm like a father speaking to his son. He was a six-foot-four, hundred-eighty-three-pound statue, hard exterior covering up his caring and gentle interior. He was a softy, really, he just never showed it while at work. And that’s what this was, this was his work, and he loved every second of it.

The name of his RIO, or radar intercept officer, was Christopher Leo, call sign Aslan. Obviously, his call sign is based off of his last name. The two met in boot camp and entered the Navy together, never once expecting to be partnered up together. They couldn’t be more pleased by the outcome. The two were like brothers, they did everything together. He was a year older than Drifter, but shorter by about six inches and weighed about the same. In boot camp Aslan was the one who would openly joke around with other recruits and would gladly accept the consequences for the sake of the joke, though everyone else weren’t fans of the punishments. Once he grew tired of saying the jokes aloud to the group he would just mention them to whoever stood next to him, and that was normally Drifter. He would have told a joke, like “Captain must not be getting any, should I put on a wig and left him have me so I can get out of calisthenics in the morning?” and Drifter would try not to show the amusement on his face but it would creep through and then they’d both end up doing double the next day. He was pretty funny, but he knew when to cut the bullshit and get serious. He’d be all fun and games until he was in the midst of combat where he’d turn just as rigid as the naval aviator sitting in front of him.

“Alright I got them up on the radar, you’ve got a MiG right ahead of you on Slipknot’s tail,” Aslan explained. “See if you can get a lock on him.”

“Oh yea, I see them, there’s a whole crew of them over there,” Drifter acknowledged.

“We’re way outnumbered out here,” his RIO commented.