Reporting, Major Chekhov. 'So Delicious' Combat Squadron is assembled. Seventeen men were expected; seventeen men are present!"
The main combat force of Airborne Base 911, the seventeen pilots stood neatly in two rows. The deputy squadron leader was that short-haired girl with an eight-pack and an A-cup. The number couldn't be any higher; otherwise, under high G-forces, she could give herself a good beating.
The first alarm sounded, and the pilots leisurely in Hangar 1 jumped up like a chicken coop being disturbed.
Those exercising abandoned their gym equipment, not even bothering to wipe their sweat, and crawled into their anti-G suits, still smelling of sweat; those playing cards threw down their cards and left, not even having time to grab their betting coins; those eating, drinking, and having fun immediately stopped and hurriedly donned their protective gear.
Still catching up on sleep in the dorm, I shuffled over in my slippers, clothes in my hands, practically stumbling along.
The combat squadron at Aircrew Base 911 is called "So Delicious," which does sound odd, completely lacking any menacing or imposing aura; it seems like a name chosen randomly. But when you connect it to the pilots' codenames, it becomes quite interesting.
Squadron Leader Chekov Leonidevich Ivanov's codename is "Peanut Butter," and the deputy squadron leader, the short-haired girl Ilya Rusius, is called "Ghost Pepper." The others also use various condiments as their flight codenames.
So many condiments gathered together... Emmmm... so delicious!
It also implies a thirst for combat.
Major Chekov Leonidevich Ivanov, the squadron leader of the "True Fragrance" fighter squadron, puffed out his chest and reeked of alcohol. He paced back and forth, shouting, "Comrades, good day! You've all worked hard, comrades! Let's start checking the combat missions! Ugh! Anyone want a drink?"
He shook his head, feeling perfectly fine.
Drinking kept his mind clear; planes don't fly in straight lines, and no one could shoot down the godlike. Chekhov.
The random, chaotic Brownian motion curve is unpredictable; unless you also blindly fire, applying probability to chaos theory, there's absolutely no way to guarantee a hit.
This guy's excuse for drunk driving was truly unique and breathtaking. It made
perfect sense! None of the 17 pilots in the "True Fragrance" squadron uttered a sound. Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor) and naizi (a type of
(Nipples) was the squadron leader's faith; no one wanted to cause trouble.
Seeing no response, Chekhov could only regretfully twist the bottle cap, unzip his anti-G suit, and stuff the bottle directly into his crotch, even straightening his back, as if to say, "I'm going to warm this wine and slay Hua Xiong!
"201, ready!"
"202 ready!"
Two MiG-29 jet fighters from Hangar 2, towed by a locomotive crew, passed by the gate of Hangar 1, heading towards the open-air apron adjacent to the main runway.
201 and 202 are the fuselage codes of two MiG fighters. The American-made MiG was originally a joke; its prototype was the F-20 "Tigershark" jet fighter, whose strategic reserve production line had been restarted. A former export star that took twelve years to develop, it rivaled the Russian MiG-21, another benchmark of second-generation fighters. It could do everything a MiG could do, including carrying AIM-7 Sparrow air-to-air missiles for beyond-visual-range combat. Even after upgrades to its avionics and engines, it remained as formidable as ever, offering extremely high cost-effectiveness. With its large payload and long range, it was an absolute air superiority weapon for military contractors. Smaller turboprop aircraft would be easily defeated.
Don't underestimate this second-generation king; even third-generation fighters might not be able to defeat the revived F-20.
It's a huge mistake to assume that a higher aircraft model number equates to greater combat capability.
After reviving the old production line to generate revenue, Northrop Grumman simply slapped a MiG-29 label on it and started selling it (a charade).
Why can the polar bear make a MiG-27, but the bald eagle can't make a MiG-29?
Outrageous!
What is integrity? Can you eat it?
Besides, one makes an odd number, the other an even number—isn't that perfect?
Mikoyan, with one foot in its grave and the other in a museum: (艹皿艹*)
Under the left and right wings of the jet fighter, two entirely crimson missiles are suspended, their three air intakes making them stand out.
Following closely behind, six A-39B "Big Mouth" light turboprop attack aircraft, ready to go, also have a crimson missile mounted on their centerlinehardpoints..
The fuse module of the warhead flickers with a blue ange-eyee halo, as if breathing, indicating that the missile has been preliminarily activated and is ready for launch at any time.
Airborne Base 911 spared no expense, equipping the entire "True Fragrance" squadron with "Dragon-Slaying Missiles," capable of posing a lethal threat even to dragons. The KDK-1 air-breathing hypersonic smart missiles were activated and put into standby mode.
The target of this emergency mission was a dragon, and a rare golden dragon at that. Although everyone appeared calm and methodically prepared for battle, a sense of unease lingered in their hearts.
The Neanderthals' defeat from the Primordial Realm was largely due to the participation of the dragons from the Celestial Realm. Dragons were undeniably the masters of the heavens, especially since the current Dragon King was a golden dragon. They were ruthless; those who could fight were brought in, and those who couldn't were all dragged out and attacked
The "dragon-slaying missiles," specifically developed to target dragons, were about to be tested.
Boom!
A muffled, rolling, thunderous sound echoed from the distant horizon.
"Roar!~"
A soul-chilling roar reached everyone's ears, as if even the clouds trembled slightly.
The golden dragon arrived unexpectedly fast.
"Take off! All take off!"
Chekov, the squadron leader of the "So Delicious" fighter squadron, boarded the vehicle crew's transport vehicle and headed to the tarmac to board the planes.
Taking down the golden dragon would be a huge reward!
Before his words could even finish, several gleaming silver spears shot out with lightning speed, turning the two MiG-29 (Russian) jet fighters that had just arrived on the tarmac into pincushions.
The crew members guarding the planes were stunned in unison, and then their expressions changed drastically. They turned to flee, but a massive, earth-shattering explosion and a dazzling burst of fire instantly engulfed them and all the equipment on the tarmac.
The power supply trucks and gas trucks, which hadn't even had time to detach, were instantly torn to pieces.
"Damn those gold dragons; they're all a bunch of lunatics!"
The shockwave that swept in knocked the unsuspecting squadron leader Chekov to the ground. He exhaled a puff of choking smoke, scrambled to his feet, and suddenly seemed to remember something. He reached down and touched his crotch, then revealed a lewd and smug smile. He chuckled a few times, turned around, and prepared to call out to his partner, MiG wingman Basong, pilot of MiG 202.
"Well, now you're going to be my fire control operator again, huh, Basong?!"
Fortunately, the "Dragon Slayer" missiles mounted under the wings did not detonate completely. Otherwise, the terrifying destructive power would have created a huge crater on the entire tarmac and affected the nearby main runway, with damage comparable to a full-force shot from a 400mm naval gun.
Not only was Chekhov Leonidevich Ivanov killed instantly, but even the nearby hangar was not spared.
Two MiG-29 jet fighters were reduced to ashes right before their eyes. However, Chekhov and Basong were also flight partners on the A-39B "Big Mouth" light turboprop attack aircraft, number 211. "Peanut Butter" Chekhov was the pilot, and "Lemongrass" Basong was the fire-control operator.
Whether in formation or flying together, their tacit understanding was always like telepathy, irreplaceable.
But Basong was no longer able to respond.
He lay motionless on the ground, most of his head missing, covered in blood, only a single, lifeless eye remaining, staring blankly at the flames and smoke billowing into the sky a hundred meters away.
This unfortunate fellow hadn't even had a chance to board his MiG-28 jet fighter before the shrapnel from the exploding aircraft sliced off half his head, his body rapidly cooling.
Poor partner!
Chekhov slammed his fist into the ground in frustration.
Three plumes of smoke rose in succession from Airborne Base 911 as three anti-aircraft missiles, trailing flashes of light, shot into the sky, accelerating rapidly.
The Phalanx CIWS and anti-aircraft artillery positions dared not utter a sound, fearing they would be easy prey; the anti-aircraft missile positions emptied their launchers immediately.
The gold-type dragon, now upgraded to a digital dragon, possesses a wider range of attack methods. A moment of carelessness can leave it vulnerable. Therefore, once engaged, one must unleash full power without hesitation, fighting as fiercely as possible, giving it their all—perhaps that might just secure a chance of survival.
-his book has been signed.
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