As they were observing the zombies march towards them, the drone caught sothing.
"Sir, multiple flyers detected, heading our way," the operator reported.
Adrian didn’t react right away.
"Clarify," he said.
The operator adjusted the feed, switching from ground tracking to aerial scan. The drone tilted upward slightly, its cara catching movent above the skyline.
"Count?" Adrian asked.
"Stand by... fifteen... eighteen..."
The operator paused, eyes narrowing as more signatures entered the fra.
"...twenty... more coming in from the rear."
Another analyst leaned closer.
"Zoom in," he said.
The feed sharpened. It was indeed a flyer.
"They’re fast," the operator said. "Faster than the ground elents."
Adrian stepped closer to the screen.
"Vector?" he asked.
"Sa as the swarm," the analyst replied. "Northbound. Direct line."
Another operator pulled up altitude readings.
"Low altitude flight. They’re not cruising high. They’re staying within urban canopy level."
"Well, they’ll be the first to co, we need to intercept them," Adrian said. "Send out the F-35."
"Air control, scramble one flight, imdiate," one of the operators relayed.
A channel opened.
"Air Control, this is Command. We have inbound aerial hostiles. Repeat, inbound flyers. Launch F-35 for intercept."
"Copy, Command. Scrambling now."
Outside, Basa Air Base ca alive.
The F-35 sat at the ready position on the apron, angled slightly toward the taxiway, its matte gray surface barely reflecting the floodlights around it. The aircraft looked still at a glance, but up close, it was already waking up.
The canopy was sealed.
Inside, the pilot sat strapped in, helt locked, visor down, hands already resting on the throttle and stick. The cockpit glowed faintly, a mix of green and amber displays feeding him data in real ti.
Engine spool was already in progress.
At the rear, the Pratt & Whitney F135 engine began to build power, the low hum rising steadily into a deep, controlled roar. Heat shimr ford behind the exhaust nozzle, distorting the air as the turbine climbed through its startup cycle.
"Falcon One, engine stable. Systems green," the pilot said.
"Falcon Two, sa," another voice followed.
Ground crew moved fast but precise around the aircraft.
One technician crouched near the nose gear, checking alignnt and clearing any last obstructions. Another stood off to the side, headset on, watching the control surfaces.
The flaperons moved.
Subtle.
A slight downward deflection, then back to neutral.
The rudder adjusted.
Stabilizers responded.
Everything tested.
Everything ready.
"Falcon flight, you are cleared to taxi," the tower transmitted.
"Falcon One copies. Taxiing."
The pilot pushed the throttle forward slightly.
The aircraft rolled.
The nose wheel turned as the F-35 entered the taxiway, its movent deliberate as it lined up with the runway. Behind it, Falcon Two followed at proper spacing, maintaining formation even on the ground.
The landing lights cut through the dark strip ahead.
The runway stretched out in front of them, long and clear.
"Falcon One holding short," the pilot reported.
"Falcon Two holding."
"Falcon flight, you are cleared for imdiate takeoff. Wind calm. You are good to go."
"Falcon One copies. Rolling."
The pilot didn’t hesitate.
Throttle forward.
Further.
Then full.
The engine roared.
The aircraft surged forward, acceleration imdiate as the thrust pushed it down the runway. The nose stayed low for a mont, building speed, the landing gear absorbing the vibration as velocity climbed rapidly.
Eighty knots.
One hundred.
One fifty.
"Rotate."
The stick pulled back slightly.
The nose lifted.
The main gear followed.
And just like that, the F-35 left the ground.
Gear retracted almost imdiately, the aircraft climbing at a steep angle before leveling off into a forward push. Falcon Two lifted seconds behind, mirroring the climb, both aircraft aligning as they cleared the airspace above the base.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot switched modes.
Radar active.
Targeting system online.
Data feed from command synced directly into the helt display.
Red markers appeared.
Far.
But closing.
"Falcon One to Command. We are airborne and moving to intercept."
Back in the command center, Adrian watched the blue markers move.
"Copy, Falcon One," he said. "Targets are inbound on your vector. You are weapons free once you detected them."
"Copy, Command," Falcon One replied. "Weapons free on confird contact."
The night sky ahead was dark, but the pilot didn’t need to see them with his eyes.
They were already there.
On the display inside his helt, multiple red markers moved fast across the grid, low altitude, closing distance rapidly. The sensor fusion system layered everything together. Radar returns. Infrared signatures. Movent prediction.
They were real.
And they were coming straight in.
"Falcon Two, tighten up," Falcon One said. "We’re going in hot."
"Copy, tightening," Falcon Two answered.
Both aircraft adjusted their formation slightly, maintaining spacing but aligning their approach vectors for a clean intercept.
"Command, Falcon One. We have solid lock on multiple airborne targets," the pilot reported.
"Copy," Adrian’s voice ca through. "You are cleared to engage."
Falcon One didn’t hesitate.
He switched weapon profiles.
"Fox Three ready," he said.
The targeting box locked onto the first cluster of flyers. The system tracked their movent, predicting trajectory even as they shifted erratically through the air.
"Range good."
Tone steady.
"Fox Three."
A missile dropped from the internal bay of the F-35, its motor igniting a split second later. It streaked forward, leaving a sharp line of heat as it accelerated toward the targets.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot tracked it.
Ti compressed.
The missile closed fast.
Then, impact.
A flash in the sky.
One of the flyers disappeared in a burst of light and debris, the explosion briefly illuminating the rest of the swarm around it.
"Splash one," Falcon One confird.
"Falcon Two, your turn."
"Copy. Fox Three."
Another missile launched, cutting through the night, guided by the aircraft’s targeting system. The flyers reacted this ti, their formation breaking slightly as they shifted direction mid-air.
But it wasn’t enough.
The missile adjusted.
Tracked.
Then hit.
Another explosion.
Fragnts scattered across the sky, falling fast toward the ground below.
"Splash two," Falcon Two said.
Back in the command center, the feed showed it clearly.
Two targets gone.
But the rest, still coming.
"They’re dispersing," one of the analysts said.
On screen, the flyers spread out, no longer holding a loose formation. They split into smaller groups, so dropping lower, others veering slightly off course before correcting.
"They’re reacting," Adrian said.
"Still heading north," the operator added. "They didn’t break vector."
"It’s fine, the F-35 will clear them all."
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