Òyì nke e mepụtara

The sky ahead fractured. Two grey-green darts materialized out of the haze, growing with alarming speed from specks to lethal silhouettes. They weren’t Flankers. The high-mounted swept wings, the boxy fuselage, the gaping intakes—MiG-23s. Floggers. Older, temperamental, but fast as hell and carrying a payload that could ruin your entire career. “Jesus, those are Floggers,” Biscuit muttered. “What the hell are Floggers doing this far west without tankers?” Vex didn’t answer. He was already keyi