作者 主题: 【Storm Front】阿兹特兰的胜利 p9-10  (阅读 713 次)

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【Storm Front】阿兹特兰的胜利 p9-10
« 于: 2022-05-15, 周日 21:36:51 »
前哨航空基地,第二特遣部队
方位:机密
1415 ZULU

很久以前,赫克特·门多萨少校的第一个飞行指导员告诉他,战斗中最艰难的部分在于等待它的发生。这句话在他年轻的时候显得尤为正确。门多萨总是干劲十足,为了得到他想要的一切,他决心要竭尽所能。这种动力使他顺利地度过了自己的军事生涯,使他早同龄人领先五年晋升为了少校。门多萨的天赋和直觉(他的上司称他为“hot stick”)使他在飞行中表现出了近乎傲慢而好斗的自信。简而言之,他是一个完美的战斗飞行员。他很享受在飞机上度过的时光,把自己的思想与一架强大的飞机融合在一起,至少可以说是令人陶醉的。然而,尽管在他的指挥下飞机有着可怕的破坏性力量,但当他在云层中滑翔时却感到前所未有的平静。门多萨少校完成了超过50个战斗任务,他的飞机没却连擦伤都不曾受过分毫,他觉得自己是无敌的。

至少,在恶魔降临在他的家乡卡利之前是这样的。

门多萨再次握紧那枚小太阳币,集中精神保持头脑清醒和专注。自从指挥部开始行动以来,门多萨和他的中队一直处于高度戒备状态。他们中队的12小时轮值差不多结束了,很快,另一个中队将取代他们的位置,成为随时待命的机群。但在解散之前,他必须做好响应的准备。因此,他坐在战斗机的驾驶舱里,开着他的机师茧,尽管他的飞机有着隔热层的庇护,白天的热量仍在他身上冲刷不断。他中队的其他成员都待在飞行员待命室里享受着空调。门多萨宁愿在他的机舱里待命。他是一个土生土长的阿兹特兰人,他一生都在拥抱着心爱的太阳的热量。

他借着一个精神指令访问了通讯链上的计时器,距离轮班结束不到二十分钟。门多萨又捏了捏硬币,尽管他戴着厚重的飞行手套,但他的力道还是在上面留下了一个凹痕。他期待紧急命令的到来,这样他就可以第一个做出反应,第一个实施正义的复仇。门多萨摊开手掌,盯着那枚暗黄色的硬币。

对除了门多萨以外的人而言,这硬币一文不值。他的儿子罗伯托四年前在他们一家造访特诺奇提特兰时购下了这枚曾经闪闪发光的硬币,上面有一个俗气的卡通太阳。这是一件为游客准备的廉价小饰品,但罗伯托知道他的父亲对太阳之路是多么的执着,所以想把它送给门多萨。这枚硬币落在一个口袋里,被遗忘了好几年,直到门多萨回卡利之后又找到了它。这是唯一能让他想起家人的东西。门多萨又捏了捏硬币,试图集中注意力,但他的意志辜负了他,那个宿命之日携着令人痛苦的细节再度朝他席卷而来。

他的中队是第一批到达卡利上空的,他对自己所见的一切毫无心理准备。生着革质翅膀的恶魔在天空中翱翔,将死亡如雨点般撒向它脚下属于门多萨的城市。在地面上,怪兽们似潮涌般前进,缓慢而不可阻挡。就像任何一个门多萨带出的好士兵一样,他的Zeta-Bravo战斗机的加力燃烧器在他身后吐出地狱之火般的痕迹,他试图拼死保护他的人民远离这逼近的威胁。

但他所有的训练,所有的经验,所有的那原始的决心都毫无意义。他的武器拒绝锁定龙,当他试图无视发射协议发射导弹时,他的对手仅仅是闪开了。但他还是开火,开火,倾泻手中的一切,直到武器舱最终枯竭。这一定让这群野兽相当开心,它们飞过他和他的僚机,在他们周围盘旋,戏弄着这些阿兹特兰战斗机。没过多久,龙便开始感到厌倦,开始撕扯战斗机的翅膀。门多萨比大多数人坚持的时间都要长,还设法杀死了一个胆敢靠近战斗机后方的家伙——他的加力炉喷出的火焰将那怪物的脸和脑袋烧得像被喷灯融化的黄油一样。他试图在那之后接近另一头龙,但召回令还是下达了。门多萨怒不可遏,拒绝撤退,并将他的飞机对准了最大的恶魔。但在门多萨完成自杀式飞行之前,他的指挥官接管了战斗机的控制权。

门多萨看着后方的传感器,他的城市、他的家、他的家人,就这样在最后一道蓝色的闪光中被摧毁殆尽。

几个小时后,门多萨一回到基地便立即被押送去了一间拘留室。门多萨在那里被折磨了两天,他确信自己会因为拒绝服从命令而被送上军事法庭,也许还会因为卡利一战的失败而遭到处刑。因此当门多萨被带到审讯室时,他并没有感到惊讶。在那里,一个穿着带有军情标志的阿兹特兰军服的男人在等着他。当情报官员告诉门多萨他已经在官方层面死亡时,门多萨的担心几乎得到了证实。门多萨接过这个身着制服的男人递来的配有数据包的通讯链,以为是要求他签下认罪书。恰恰相反,这个数据包中包含了一套新的身份,一个阿兹特科新员工福利包,以及新的命令。

那是两年前的事了。自那时起,门多萨开始和更多的人一同接受一项特殊任务的训练——也就是这项任务。他们得到了阿兹特兰和阿兹特科提供的最尖端的设备:门多萨自己的飞机直接来自研发实验室,除了“血翼”这个称为外,没有任何正式名称。它光滑、漆黑、致命,配上独特的可变几何机翼表面和特殊的矢量推进器,它有能力超越门多萨过往驾驶过的任何载具——包括他的旧Zeta-Bravo。这项任务中还有其他型号的飞机,它们可以自己控制整个中队的无人机,而无人机也不同于门多萨所见过的任何机型。还有其他的飞机驻扎在另外的前哨基地,它们的设计同他的那架一样古怪,但不知怎么地将魔法融入了它们的系统中。门多萨不知该如何去看待这一切,但这也不是一个值得思考的地方。他有命令在身,有武器在手。所有这些飞机都有一个共同点:每一架都装备了为实现他——以及他身边的所有人——所念的复仇而设计的武器。

回到当下,门多萨想起他武器舱中的特殊武器,不禁发出了一声满意的喘息。他轻轻吻了一下那枚硬币,把它放进了口袋。在离换班只有四分钟的时候,他又检查了他的计时表。他开始感到沮丧,但他还是顺从了。如果诸神愿意,他会站在矛尖上。如果不是,他只能相信自己是其他宏伟计划的一部分。

在门多萨的轮班还剩3分50秒的时候,随着警报声在整个基地响起,AR标签照亮了门多萨的视野。命令下达了:所有飞行员紧急起飞。飞行员和机组人员冲向各自的飞机,技术人员各就各位。门多萨默默地向众神致谢,然后滑进驾驶舱,闭上眼睛。VR系统立即上线,他的机师茧封闭了。没过多久,他就和他的飞机融为一体。它的传感器现在成了他的眼睛和耳朵,它引擎的动力就是他的心跳。飞机状态指示器已经在他的VR头盔显示器上显示,所有系统已经转绿。门多萨发出一个精神指令,检查了所有的控制面板。在他的虚拟视觉中,他可以看到地勤人员在进行视觉检测。机组组长竖起大拇指,门多萨闪了三下运行灯,表示他也准备完毕。

“复仇者2-0-0,准备滑行。”门多萨向塔台发送了信号。

门多萨确认了一下,然后看到一个不必要的AR复层指示着他该往哪条跑道前进。但他对基地了如指掌,只为了这一刻。引擎启动,当门多萨的飞机沿着跑道滑行时,他感到一阵肾上腺素激增。当他到达起飞位置时,他的僚机佩雷斯中尉也来到了他的右侧。两架飞机都就位后,他们听到了起飞的命令。

门多萨深吸了一口气,然后在脑子里开动油门,让引擎全速运转。佩雷斯在他的边侧,两架飞机呼啸着冲出跑道,直入天空。升空后,门多萨检查了他的战术网络。他的眼睛里满是坐标,指示着航向、速度、方向和抵达目标的时间。门多萨和他的复仇者们熟练地在预定的会合地点列队,转向他们的目标,以最大推力加速飞行。根据作战飞行控制中心的信息,他们的目标终于决定兑现他的承诺,打算摧毁特诺奇提特兰。门多萨笑了,他们早在那之前就能截住他。如果他的估计正确的话,就在距离阿卡普尔科五十公里的地方。

“复仇者2-0-0呼叫,到一万英尺高度,保持当前速度。按照我的命令,启动阿尔法攻击计划。长机只管瞄准,僚机注意身后,特别是还有更多强盗的情况下。每个人都注意撤离方向,别让那些蠢货无人机驾驶员把你堵着了。让他们来承担损失吧!”应答纷纷从他的通讯中传来,但他已经提前考虑好了。以目前的航向和速度,他们将在大约51秒内拦截目标。

与目标的距离随着时间逐秒流逝逐步拉近,门多萨看着他的远程雷达以及与轨道上的设备同步的传感器,为他的目标标上了颜色。他高高在上,从目标的三点钟方向抵近,一时间敌人似乎没有意识到他们的存在。门多萨屏住呼吸,他的武器系统开始锁定目标,但就在他们锁定成功之前,目标突然停住,并转过90度角——直朝他们飞来。

门多萨一边咒骂着,一边大声下达命令:“所有复仇者,散开各自交战,重复一遍,各自交战!”

阿兹特兰人整齐地分成两对,试图分散并迫使目标选择其中一个方向,以便另一组人转向发起交战。但在机动完成之前,目标就已身处机群之中。当他用牙齿和利爪发起撕咬或用魔法进行轰击时,那些在劫难逃的飞行员的尖叫和恳求在战术网络上回荡。

门多萨继续斜飞,从战术网络中看到他的中队已遭受了三分之二的成员损失。20秒后,这场交战已经沦为一场混乱的缠斗。门多萨把引擎踢到最大,垂直地倒转冲回交战区域。门多萨俯冲时直指目标,当他的传感器试图锁定目标时,他屏住了呼吸。就在血翼的瞄准系统确认武器已锁定时,目标抬起头,正对着门多萨的眼睛。西鲁格拱起背朝他冲来,满嘴匕首般的牙齿张开,门多萨咆哮起来。

“没错!来吧!来吧!来吧!”门多萨吼道,他的导弹发射了。

剧透 -   :
Forward Air Base, Task Force Two
Location: Classified
1415 ZULU
Long ago, Major Hector Mendoza’s first flight instructor told him
that the hardest part of battle was waiting for it to happen. In his youth,
that was especially true; Mendoza was always driven, determined to
accomplish whatever was required to get whatever he desired. This drive
had carried him well through his military career, fast-tracking him to
major five years ahead of his peers. Combined with his natural skills
and instincts (his superiors called him a “hot stick”), Mendoza was
confident bordering on arrogant and aggressive in the sky. In short, he
was a perfect combat pilot. He relished the time he spent in his plane;
merging his mind with a powerful craft was intoxicating, to say the least.
And yet, despite the awesome destructive forces at his command, when
he was gliding among the clouds, he never felt more at peace. With over
fifty combat missions completed without so much as a scratch on his
craft, Major Mendoza felt completely invincible.
At least, until the demons visited his home city of Cali.
Mendoza clenched the small sun coin in his hand once again,
focusing his will to keep his mind clear and focused. Since command
started the operation, Mendoza and his squadron had been placed on
high alert. His squadron’s twelve-hour rotation was almost complete,
and soon another would take their place as the alert-ready aircraft.
But until he was relieved, he had to be ready for the call. So he sat in
the cockpit of his fighter with his rigger cocoon open, the day’s heat
washing over him despite the thermal insulation of his aircraft’s shelter.
The rest of his squadron was in the pilots’ ready room; making good
use of the air conditioning. Mendoza preferred to wait in his craft for
the order to launch. He was a native Aztlaner, and all his life he’d
embraced the heat of the beloved sun.
With a mental command, he accessed the chrono in his com-
mlink; less than twenty minutes before the alert shift was over.
Mendoza squeezed his coin again, hard enough to leave an indentation
despite his heavy flight glove. He wanted the scramble order to come so
that he could be one of the first to respond, the first to enact righteous
vengeance. Mendoza opened his palm and stared at the dull yellow coin.
It wasn’t worth anything, except to Mendoza. His son Roberto
purchased the once-bright coin with the gaudy cartoonish sun when
their family visited Tenochtitlán four years ago. It was a cheap trinket
meant for tourists, but Roberto knew how devoted his father was to
the path of the sun and wanted Mendoza to have it. The coin remained
forgotten in a pocket for years until he found it again after Cali. It was
the only thing he had to remind him of his family. Mendoza squeezed
the coin yet again, trying to focus, but his will failed him, that fateful
day coming back in excruciating detail.
His squadron was one of the first to arrive in the skies over Cali,
and nothing had prepared him for what he witnessed. Demons on
leathery wings soared in the sky, raining death onto his city below. On
the ground, monsters advanced like a rising tide, slow and unstoppable.
Like any good solider he charged in, the afterburners of his Zeta-Bravo
fighter spitting trails of hellfire behind him as he desperately tried to
defend his people from the advancing threat.
But all his training, all of his experience, and all of his raw
determination meant nothing. His weapons refused to lock onto the
dragons, and when he overrode the launch protocols to dummy-fire
his missiles, his adversaries simply dodged out of the way. Still he fired
and fired, letting everything loose until his weapon bays were dry. This
must have amused the beasts, who swooped past and looped around
him and his wing mates, toying with the Aztlan fighters. Before
long the dragons grew bored and started tearing the wings off the
fighters. Mendoza lasted longer than most, and managed to kill one
who ventured to close to his fighter’s rear. The flames from Mendoza’s
afterburner removed the creature’s face and head like a blowtorch on
butter. He had tried to engage another after that, but the recall order
was given. Enraged, Mendoza refused to retreat and aimed his craft at
the biggest demon of all. But before he could complete his suicide run,
Mendoza’s commander overrode the fighter’s controls.
Mendoza watched through the rear sensors as his city, his home,
his family, was destroyed in one final blue flash.
When he had arrived back at his base hours later, Mendoza
was promptly escorted to a holding cell, where he languished for two
days. Convinced that he was to be court-martialed for refusing to
obey orders, perhaps executed for failing at Cali, Mendoza wasn’t
surprised when he was taken to an interrogation room. There, a man
in an Aztlan uniform bearing a Military Intelligence insignia and a
man in a well-cut business suit were waiting. Mendoza’s fears were
almost confirmed when the Intelligence officer told Mendoza that he
was now officially a dead man. The man in the suit passed a com-
mlink with a data packet on it, which Mendoza took, thinking they
meant for him to sign a confession. Instead, the packet contained a
new identity, a benefits package for a new employee of Aztechnology,
and new orders.
That was over two years ago. Since then, Mendoza and many
more began training for a special mission: this mission. They were given
the most bleeding-edge equipment Aztlan and Aztechnology had to
offer. Mendoza’s own craft came straight from the R and D labs and
had no real designation other than Bloodwing. Sleek, black, and deadly,
with its unique variable-geometric wing surfaces and unique vectored
thrusters, it could outperform anything he had flown before, including
his old Zeta-Bravo. There were also other aircraft, ones that could
control an entire squadron of drones by themselves. The drones they
controlled were also unlike anything Mendoza had ever seen. There
were other craft stationed at other forward bases, strange ones that
were the same design as his but somehow integrated magic into their
systems. Mendoza wasn’t sure what to think of that, but it wasn’t
his place to think. He had his orders, had his weapon. One thing all of
these craft had in common: every single one of them was armed with
weapons designed to achieve the revenge he—and everyone around
him—wanted.
Coming back to the present, Mendoza let out a huff of satisfac-
tion as he thought of the special ordnance in his weapon bays. He gave
his coin a soft kiss before pocketing it. He checked his chrono again;
only four minutes before his shift was up. Frustration started to creep
into his mind, but he resigned himself. If the gods willed it, he would
be at the tip of the spear. If not, he would just have to trust that he
would be part of some other master plan.
With three minutes and fifty seconds to go in his rotation, AR
tags lit up Mendoza’s field of vision as alarms blared all over the base.
The order was given: all pilots SCRAMBLE. Pilots and aircrews rushed
to their respective craft as techs moved into position. Mendoza gave
silent thanks to the gods as he slid down into his cockpit and closed his
eyes. The VR immersion systems came online instantly as his rigger
cocoon sealed. In less than a heartbeat, he was one with his craft. Its
sensors were now his eyes and ears; the power of its engines was his
heartbeat. Already craft status indicators were filling his VR heads-
up display indicating all systems were green. With a mental command,
Mendoza checked all control surfaces. In his virtual vision, he could
see the ground crew visually verifying the test. With a thumbs-up
from the crew chief, Mendoza blinked the running lights three times
to indicate his own thumbs up.
“Avenger Two-Zero-Zero, ready for taxi,” Mendoza signaled to the
control tower.
With an acknowledgement, Mendoza watched as an unneces-
sary AR overlay indicated which runway to proceed toward; he knew
the base by heart for just this moment. As the engines powered up,
Mendoza felt a rush of adrenaline as his craft made its way down the
runway. By the time Mendoza reached takeoff position, his wingman,
Lieutenant Perez, was also pulling into position to his right. With both
craft properly positioned, they heard the order to take off.
Mendoza took a deep breath as he mentally applied throttle
and brought his engines to full military power. With Perez on his
wing, both craft roared down the runway and into the sky. Once
airborne, Mendoza checked his tacnet. Coordinates filled his eyes, in-
dicating course, speed, direction, and time to target. With practiced
ease, Mendoza and his Avengers formed up at their predetermined
rendezvous, turned toward their target, and applied full afterburn-
ers. According to information from the combat flight controllers, their
target had finally decided to make good on his promise to destroy
Tenochtitlán. Mendoza smiled; they would intercept him long before
then. Fifty kilometers from Acapulco if his estimates were correct.
“Avenger Two-Zero-Zero to group, come to ten thousand feet
and maintain current speed. On my order, initiate attack plan Alpha.
Leads go for good shots only and wings watch their backs, especially
for more bandits. Everyone watch your exit vectors; don’t let those idiot
drone-jockeys box you in. Let them absorb the damage!” A chorus of
acknowledgements came over his comm, but Mendoza was already
thinking ahead. At present course and speed, they would intercept the
target in approximately fifty-one seconds.
As the seconds and the kilometers ticked away; Mendoza
watched as his long-range radar and sensors synched up with or-
bital assets and painted his target. Mendoza came in on the target’s
three-o’-clock side, high, and for a moment it seemed the enemy was
unaware of their presence. Mendoza held his breath as his weapons
systems worked to gain a solid lock, but just before they could, the
target stopped suddenly and turned ninety degrees—directly toward
them.
Cursing to himself, Mendoza shouted out orders: “All Avengers;
break and engage at will, repeat: engage at will!”
The Aztlan flyers broke neatly into pairs, trying to scatter and
force the target to choose a direction so the rest could turn and engage.
But before the maneuver was completed, the target was among them.
Screams and pleas from the doomed pilots echoed across the tacnet as
the target tore into them with tooth and claw, or blasted them with
magic.
Mendoza continued his bank and saw through the tacnet that
two-thirds of his squadron were already gone. Twenty seconds in and
the engagement had already degraded into a chaotic dogfight. Kicking
his engines to full, Mendoza went vertical and inverted into a dive back
towards the engagement zone. With his nose pointed directly at the
target as he dove, Mendoza held his breath as his sensors tried to lock
on to the target. Just as the Bloodwing’s targeting system registered
a weapons lock, the target looked directly above, right into Mendoza’s
eyes. Mendoza snarled as Sirrurg arched his back and surged up-
wards towards him, his mouth full of dagger teeth opened wide.
“That’s right! Come on! Come ON! COME ON!” Mendoza bel-
lowed as his missile fired.

离线 马非鱼

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Re: 【Storm Front】阿兹特兰的胜利 p9-10
« 回帖 #1 于: 2022-05-18, 周三 15:25:21 »
 :em009 记得贴上原文嗷(放在隐藏里