I pick up on the two groups approaching, each covering the other as they go. The preeminence of the Empire’s aerial mages in the eastern skies rests on taking the first look, the first shot, the first kill.
The ideal scenario is to detect the enemy first, lay down controlling fire before they can, and finish them off with a single attack. The goddess of victory smiles upon whichever side overcomes the fog of war. Thus, as soon as I detect the enemy, I begin barking orders.
“Listen up. let’s engage the decoy as planned. Phase one: collide with the enemy flying at 7,500. Make them think we’re going in for close combat with our magic blades.”
It is widely known that Imperial Army mages have a propensity for close combat. The veteran mages of the Empire are old hands at the almost contradictory art of systematically disordered melee.
As a result, once we cut into their ranks, the enemy will likely tighten their defenses in response, exactly as expected. Those flying closer to the ground will probably continue forward, assuming their ploy has worked.
My plan is to aim for that moment when our prey’s guard is at its weakest. “We want to punch through, not get caught up in a dogfight. After we reach 6,000, it’s time for phase two. Rain hell on those mages flying NOE below. We want them to be fully roasted by the time they even notice we’re there.
“Ready?” I ask from the front of the formation. The men respond with enthusiasm.
Of course, the outcome is almost decided. Pushing our Type 97 cores to their limit, our battalion advances, maintaining alignment and appropriate distance. From the enemy’s point of view, the sight of our gleaming magic blades can only mean that a dogfight is imminent. The other mages and I easily whip past the decoy Federation troops, who are too focused on defense, behaving as if we are merely making a light pass.
Breaking through and maneuvering the men as if we’re about to cut back into the enemy’s position, we lay down a decisive carpet of air-to-ground control fire in the form of explosive formulas before our real targets, the low-flying unit, even realize they have been targeted. The barrage of explosions hits our targets with stunning accuracy.
Normally, the Federation Army mages’ durable defensive shells would withstand such fire. But what if they happened to be suppressing their shells to limit their mana signals while supporting various NOE flight observation formulas? What would happen if they were caught off guard in such a vulnerable state, barely capable of manifesting more than their basic protective flight films. After all, the enemy’s computation orbs are single core. Between monitoring the topography and suppressing their mana signals, as well as maintaining ranks while they fly, they have too many tasks running as it is. After showering them with explosion formulas from overhead, using twin-core Type 97s, it would have been stranger if we hadn’t annihilated them.
All the better for our side, as we managed to take out an elite unit with minimal effort.
After all, if we had met them head-on, the damage to our side probably would have been heavy as well, I think. It is disconcerting that the enemy has begun to show such ingenuity. Tanya does not like this at all. If we hadn’t noticed them, the enemy might have easily gotten one over on us. This is no laughing matter.
It isn’t enough to win a battle, then. It needs to be decisive.
Having repelled the enemy’s first wave and secured a limited degree of superiority, it is time to commence repeated and sustained aerial mage attacks: destroy the enemy’s lines of communications, cut off their supplies, capture materials—anything is possible. Search out and destroy the railways, roads, and snow-covered pipelines.
Look at how they burn! Aha-ha-ha! All the while, the aerial mages fly through the black smoke in the sky.
Snow, mud, and bodies.
Sortie, attack, land, eat, attack, repel, regroup, charge, attack—and back to base, over and over again, repeating the fevered process with equipment captured from the enemy.
Then, having expended every last ounce of energy—body and soul—in every sense of the word, by the time we finally return to the provisional base built at Baruch Bridge, Tanya’s mind is hanging by a thread.
Somehow, I manage to land without crashing. The moment I flop down into the folding chair next to the command desk, an indescribable enervation washes over me. “Bring me a coffee. And not that muddy piss water…”
“Mmm, I’ll get it…”
My adjutant’s face, as she lurches to her feet by my side, is just as exhausted as my own.
“Damn it! You rest, Visha!” I scream angrily. Perhaps not the best way to put someone to bed. I rub my temples, trying to fend off a headache as I raise my voice. “Orderly! Bring coffee! The real stuff, with caffeine in it!”
None of that substitute garbage.
Even someone as civilized and respectable as me might not be able to control themselves if forced to drink chicory under these already trying circumstances.
I stretch my neck as I engage in some ill-conceived self-care, gulping huge swigs of coffee while I sit in this oddly comfortable chair—probably designed for the behind of some Federation bigwig—while I also toss some chocolate into my mouth to beat this headache into submission by sheer caloric force.
My shoulders are far too sore for someone in their teens. My neck makes an unpleasant popping sound as I curse softly and stand up to roll it around. I should probably do some light calisthenics to loosen up after all the flying we’ve done, but it takes phenomenal energy to hoist myself to my feet.
But if I neglect my body now, it won’t be long before it starts stiffening up for real.
Just as I start feeling like myself again—using the energy from that warmed-over coffee to lurch to my feet and reluctantly move around—I find that my break is, cruelly, already over. The fact that I set this schedule only adds insult to injury.
Preparing to set out again, I pull out the map and make contact with control.
Three mage divisions landing in enemy territory and operating separately would likely cause a decent amount of trouble for the enemy, but a coordinated, controlled force? That is sure to make them squirm.
As I finish my preliminary planning, I give First Lieutenant Serebryakov a gentle kick.
Just to be clear, it was a very, very gentle kick. But anything less than that and there is no way that my adjutant, who was sleeping like death itself in her own personal dugout, would have ever woken up.
“Wh-wha… Did I fall asleep?”
It doesn’t seem as if the first lieutenant even realizes that she had fallen asleep at some point. If there is a limit to exhaustion, we have found it.
“We might start falling asleep while still midair at this rate.”