18728/In-Flight Emergency

In-Flight Emergency
Date of Scene:	01 August 2024
Location:	Ferris Aircraft Innovation Center
Synopsis:	Carol and Hal take a couple of F-22s up to the CONDOR ONE MOA for what was supposed to be testing a new AI-powered drone prototype. Instead, they run into two F-15s that engage them unprovoked. Now they both want to know: Who is the Lizard League?
Cast of Characters:	Carol Ferris, Hal Jordan, Mark Grayson

---

Carol Ferris has posed:
Have you ever seen that movie Iron Eagle? The one where the kid secretly trains in the F-16s without the Air Force realizing it?

Carol Ferris getting into the cockpit of one of the two F-22s on loan from the military isn't quite that bad. After all, she's the one who signed for them in the first place, and she could literally fire anyone who tried to stop her.

But she does still answer to the board, and they are not going to be pleased when they find out the CEO of the company is flying wingman to one of their most reckless (and most talented) test pilots.

At 15,000 feet above sea level, about 250 miles northeast of the Adirondacks, a pair of F-22s are just coming up on the CONDOR ONE Military Operating Area (MOA). Normally split into CONDOR ONE HIGH (10k - 18k MSL) and CONDOR ONE LOW (300 - 10k), Ferris Air has reserved the entire MOA for their three-hour test flight. The prototype drones are already there in the MOA... somewhere.

"Skywatch, status report," Carol's voice comes over the radio. In the cockpit, that bulbous Helmet Mounted Display (HMD) that makes all the pilots look like some kind of weird bugs from the outside covers her face, but the augmented-reality gives her a HUD wherever she looks -- able to track targets even through the seat of her aircraft.

"Sentinel One and Two are active and in position. Green light, Sapphire," comes a voice over comms. The drones were being controlled, at least in part, by the control center back in Metropolis. The military loaned the airspace and the F-22s to test with, but they had no part in participating in the exercise. It's totally a Ferris Air operation.

"Copy that, Skywatch."

The jets are so close to each other in fingertip formation that Carol can look out the canopy of her cockpit and see the other pilot -- her flight lead.

But also so much more than just her flight lead.

"Feeling loose, Highball?" It's easy to hear the smile in her voice, even as the jets race along just below the speed of sound. People complained about the sonic booms, so cruise was always _just_ below that... at least until they got in the MOA.

Hal Jordan has posed:
~o Highway to the Danger Zone.

Okay, maybe not quite. This is only an unarmed simulation functionally, albeit in otherwise fully functional F-22s. So aside from some freak accident or some truly reckless flying from one of them -- surely not him of course -- this should be something akin to a walk in the park. Nice and easy.

Even if it isn't going to be a thrill every second, it feels good to be back in the cockpit. No matter where he goes, no matter what he does, no matter what other changes are going on in his life, the cockpit is still very much the closet thing that Hal Jordan has to a home.

Or at least it was until recently.

He can quite literally exceed the speed of light. He can race to distant solar systems in a matter of hours thanks to the gateways in space that he can open up with his handy dandy power ring. So it remains a question of why, crusing along just shy of the speed of sound should still produce such a thrill for him. Why it should make him grin beneath that flight mask that pumps that oxygen mix in, that gives him easy radio communication with both their ground base observers and, of course, his partner in this little endeavor.

"You know it Sapphire," comes Hal's immediate retort, the eyes behind that helmet constantly flickering about, scanning the electronic HUD that is projected there, checking his instruments. Even before reaching the Military Operating Area he is already slipping back into old habits easily.

It's just like riding a bike, really. If a bike was insanely complicated and cost tens of millions of dollars. Otherwise the analogy is spot on, at least in Hal's eyes.

Of course, one hopes that as all that old, familiar training, the hours upon hours of flight time comes flooding back some of his less endearing antics do not follow as well. It might be better if Hal doesn't play too fast and loose with this particular assignment.

It seems that so long as there is a Ferris in charge of Ferris Aircraft -- whether it be Carol or her father -- Hal will always be able to return to his job. Will always have that comfortable familiarity waiting for him when he gets back from whatever has pulled him off planet, has disrupted his life one more time.

But that doesn't mean he should necessarily push it.

Unless it happens to be the limits of any engagement. Even a 'friendly', unarmed session like this one. Whether they always like it or not, that's ultimately what they're paying him to do.

And Hal? Hal wouldn't have it any other way.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Three hundred and fifty million dollars to be precise.

Each.

Carol knows this figure. It was on the paperwork along with the additional penalties if they came back scratched, dented, or otherwise damaged beyond normal wear and tear.

"Alright. Ten miles to the MOA. Rules of engagement," Carol says into the radio for posterity, because everything they said and did was being recorded both on their onboard computers and back at home base. Being able to dissect every second was absolutely crucial to determining the outcome of the testing, after all. The drones are supposed to be operating entirely on AI, but they both have pilots back in the control center that can override them if they start heading towards civilian airspace... or populated areas.

"We're cleared down to three-hundred A-G-L, but the hard deck is five thousand feet once the fight is on for safety. Ceiling is eighteen thousand." Above that, they'd start getting into commercial airspace and have to contend with the civilian jets. And absolutely no one wanted a borrowed F-22 to crash into a passenger jet. "Flight Lead calls 'Fight's On' and 'Knock it off.'"

There's a pause, then, as Carol's attention shifts down to the big, flat screen displays in front of her.

"Fuel state one-six thousand. Systems check complete."

One more glance out her cockpit to the plane beside her, a thumbs up given with her left hand where a glimpse of that familiar violet ring can be seen in her middle finger.

"Radar on passive sweep, searching for targets. One mile to MOA. Ready on your signal, Highball."

Mark Grayson has posed:
(Mood Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyqpsNFgq0c )

At 35,000 feet - pingining as a commercial flight, a pair of Lizard League DRACOS are in flight. Built on the airframe of aging F-15, the pair of fighters in black with white underbellies are cruising for a bruising.

As they approach the MOA, one of the pilots radios to their base somewhere off the East Coast.

<< Roost, DRACO Flight, target in sight. >>
<< DRACO Flight, Roost, you're clear to acquire and destroy. >>

Then another voice on the comms, << Destroy them now! For your Leader! >> comes the hissing voice.

The two planes respond with << HAIL LIZARD SUPREME! >>

<< Weasel One, Weasel Two. Picking up two enemy bogeys. >>
<< Weasel Two, Weasel One. Confirmed. We're gonna have to clear them out before we can hit the base. Switch to Sidewinders, I'll target the left, you're on right. >>
<< Weasel Two confirms, on right. >>

Dropping out of the sky, the two DRACOS dive towards the pair of F-22s, both of them immediatley painting them with radar while engaging drone scrambling technology. A pair of missiles drop from each plane, one of them does not ignite and drops towards the ground. A dud. That's what happens when most of your gear is surplus. The other three missiles do manage to ignite. Two of them race towards SAPPHIRE, the other one targetting HIGHBALL.

<< FOR THE LIZARD LEAGUE! >> sounds out on the all-frequency as the two planes try to press the temporary advantage that they think that they have.

There are new rules of engagement, Carol!

-- SURVIVE --

Hal Jordan has posed:
This part? This part of the experience, the assortment of checks, the confirmations, the review of the engagement protocols are not exactly the most glamorous part of what they do and while in his younger years, Hal might have been outright dismissive of such things, he has learned at least a little patience with such things. Come to understand why these sorts of things do need to be taken seriously.

That doesn't mean that he isn't itching to press ahead, to open up that throttle and send his jet screaming ahead to the MOA to get this started. Even an unarmed test flight meant to fundamentally prove the viability of these latest drones is a pretty good reason to fly, truly fly.

Not go through the host of recertification programs and tests that he has for the past several weeks. Not to spend time in a simulated cockpit, showing what he can do on computer screens.

To actually get out there, thousands of feet above the gorund, amongst the clouds. To let everything else but the flight stick and the objective at hand fall away and lose himself in what he does best.

Well, almost best.

"Flight checks confirmed. Rules of engagement... acknowledged." Even in another fighter, even with that mask on, it is almost possible to see -- or at least sense -- the expression that Hal makes at the later. He is not, suffice to say, a particularly big believer in the setting of rules when it comes to these sorts of things.

It totally makes sense of course, and intellectually Hal gets why. It's for safety, it's because they are looking to gauge performance on specific elements. There are a ton of good reasons why.

But real life engagements rarely come with such an ordered set of guidelines that everyone agrees to follow.

For what amounts to being a Space Cop, Hal sometimes has a bit of a problem with 'the rules'. Much to the Guardians occasional dismay.

At Carol's thumbs up, Hal lifts his own gloves hand to do the same, that green glow noticably absent from his own hand. But then it is something that Hal insists on. The ring never comes with him when he is in the cockpit. It feels like too much of a cheat. A safety net. Something that can only dull his senses, his instincts, knowing that he has it to fall back on.

It is also something that he has been lectured about from time to time. From Carol of course. And Sinestro naturally. Oh, the lectures that he has received from his one-time mentor.

Then, even as they hit the edge of the MOA, just as he is switching his radar over from passive to active, everything suddenly goes crazy at once.

The active radar pings and the sudden unmistakable missile lock set off a host of alarms in the cockpit and Hal almost immediately picks up his visual scanning, head craning about, refusing to rely on instruments alone to determine just whare -- and what is attacking them. "Break hard left, Sapphire," he barks over the comms, sending his own F-22 wheeling away to the right as it banks hard away.

Carol Ferris has posed:
"Thank you, Highball," comes Sapphire's sugary sweet reply to his 'acknowledged.' She was very, very... VERY aware of his propensity for going off-script.

She'd signed the checks for the jets they had to replace.

Despite that, it hadn't been the jets she'd panicked about. Not at first, anyway. It's not like it happened often, but every single time there was an incident, her heart crawled up into her throat. She hated that he wouldn't wear his ring. She hated the thought that one day he might push himself so hard he didn't come home.

But that was just Hal Jordan, and for better or worse, she loved him.

There's a soft chime from her in-flight computer as they cross the GPS threshold into the MOA -- pre-programmed to alert them when they enter and leave the mission area -- but there's another set of much more alarming noises when she, too, reaches down to switch her radar from passive to active scanning.

And then... FOR THE LIZARD LEAGUE.

"What the hell?"

Suddenly, it's not just the warnings of the additional contacts on the radar.

'LAUNCH. LAUNCH. LAUNCH.' flashes in her HMD as the contacts come within visual range.

Break hard left, Sapphire.

"Breaking left," she reports, jerking the stick left and pulling back hard. There's soft sounds of heavy breathing and grunts as she breathes through the sudden G-forces, her jet spitting out a row of flares in her wake as vapor trails off the wings.

The F-22's wings roll as she pulls again back to the right, keeping her closing the distance to the aggressors and giving the missiles a smaller target to track. She turns her head, tracking the two incoming heat signatures, and as they get close, she squeezes her left hand into a fist. A violet bubble suddenly swallows her F-22.

"Are these friends of yours?!"

The drone scrambling technology does more than just cut the base's connection to those two prototypes. It also hampers the regular comm signal back to base.

"..*static*.. report.. *static*.. status.."

From below them, there's a fireball against one of the hillsides as a drone that had been skimming the trees loses its marbles and clips a branch, tumbling and exploding.

Mark Grayson has posed:
The pair of DRACOS hunt for the two F-22s. As the missiles streak towards their targets, they twist and turn, tracking the radar as targets as they spiral in. The closer target of Carol is the first one that reaches home. The missile slams home, exploding in flame and shrapnel.

<< Weasel One, impact! >> he calls out, almost joyful... until... << what the fuck. shields? >>
<< Not shields! Supers! >> Weasel Two calls out. << Empty your racks, get ready to turn and burn! >>

He realizes what happened, even as he looks towards HIGHBALL to see if his missiles hit. But he's following his own advice, firing his remaining missiles at Hal's jet as he prepares to swing his plane up and race to get out of the area before the pair recober and come after them!

Hal Jordan has posed:
What the hell is the Lizard League?

It is entirely possible that he has heard reference to them in passing, perhaps seen some sort of report pass through the Justice League systems on one of those -- admittedly rare -- ocassions that he takes on monitor duty at the Watchtower or Hall of Justice. But if that is the case, he admittedly doesn't recall.

Which, again, isn't necessarily a surprise. He has his own reoccuring threats to keep tabs on, not to mention all the various alerts and notifications that come his way thanks to the Corps. He is not -- no matter how much time he spends on Earth -- just looking after one planet. There is a whole secotr's worth of criminals and threats he needs to try and remember and mentally catelogue.

No doubt a certain someone *cough**ahem*BATMAN*ahem**cough* would have something pointed to say about his failure to recall this particular threat.

Banking hard away, Hal punches those afterburners, bringing the speed of his fighter screaming up well past the speed of sound and continuing to climb as a sonic boom echoes across the sky. Fast as that might be though, those Sidewinder missiles will ultimately be faster. And in addition to not packing a host of live weapons, they are also sadly deficient in countermeasures either.

Afterall, this is a live sim against unarmed drones. They really weren't supposed to need them.

Hal has a pretty good sense that Carol might just insist on full complements in the future, regardless of whether the flight exercise is just a frill or not, going forward. For his part, Hal won't be objecting to that idea either.

"I can be annyoing, even obnoxious Sapphire, but I don't have very many friends that greet meet with missile lock," he admits those eyes benath his helmet constantly moving, the HUD seemingly shifting and careening crazy-like though he never seems to have any trouble keeping tabs on where the threats are, or where his wingman is.

His wingman who does not stubbornly refuse to wear her ring just because she's going up in the cockpit. His wingman who is surrounded by that violet bubble of pure emotional force.

Like Carol, Hal also notes the sudden explosion far below and while it is certainly unfortunate to lose one of the drones like that, Hal is a little more concerned with his own survival right now. So as he continues banking around hard, he brings his jet back into a more or less straight line, screaming forward.

Straight towards his wingman.

As that missile closes in, Hal races towards Carol's F-22, the distance closing on both fronts. But as he closes in he pulls up at the last possible moment, arcing upwards.

The missile in his wake? Not so fortunate as it slams into the purple field of power surrounding her aircraft.

He might not be willing to utilize his own ring, but apparently he doesn't mind making use of hers.

"Scratch one missile," Highball says over the comm, head still careening wildly about within that cockpit, alarms blarring all over again as missile lock is established again.

He dives, sends his plane into an intricate series of twists and shakes of a pair of the pursuing missiles as they lose lock.

Unfortunately they the other two don't.

"I might have a bit of a problem here Sapphire," Hal says just as those rockets slam home, the F-22 engulfed in a fireball.

Carol Ferris has posed:
They'd known each other since they were seven years old. Sometime it felt like they'd been flying together almost that long. They didn't need to communicate every twist and turn. Hal didn't need to explain what he was doing.

She had her ring, and he didn't have his.

Just as Hal's F-22 pulls up over her shield, Carol pulls up on her stick as well, letting the missile tracking him slam into the lower part of that bubble, just like the other that had exploded harmlessly.

"GODDAMNIT IT, HAL! EJECT! EJECT!"

Carol's thready screams fill the comms, her voice on the edge of breaking. Unlike Hal, no matter how many thousands of flight hours she had logged, she was not, in fact, a military pilot. She had never been a military pilot. She was damn good in a cockpit, but she lacked the control and discipline that the Air Force or Navy would have drilled into her. She lacked the ability to keep her voice as rock-solid steady as Hal's.

Carol Ferris was passion personified. It didn't matter if she was in the boardroom fighting for her company, in the cockpit of an F-22, or riding atop The Predator to face down an army as Star Sapphire. It's why the ring chose her. Not just her love for Hal Jordan, but her capacity for love and passion in general.

It just so happens that passion includes the capacity for rage.

At 500 knots, she was so far away from him even by the time she was finished screaming she couldn't see him, anymore. Why the FUCK wouldn't he wear his ring?! 'Because it makes me over-confident,' she echoes snidely in her own mind. Yeah, well, if you're not dead, I'm going to strangle you...

"Oh, hell no..."

It's a low growl from Sapphire's throat as she spots those two jets turning to retreat, and even as her own nose comes around towards them, her shield suddenly shifts. She throws the throttle forward as a cartoonish array of missiles -- maybe fifteen on each side in racks that the jet would never be able to support -- appears under the wings of the F-22, all glowing bright violet.

"You want to play? Let's play..."

The afterburner ignites as _all_ of those missiles fire like rockets, one after another, streaking after the two jets. Except they're not guided by heat. They're not guided by the jammed electronic warfare systems or radar 'target lock.' They're guided by Carol's rage as she stares at the targets in her HUD and visualizes them blowing. the fuck. up.

Mark Grayson has posed:
Splashing Hal was a small victory. The base had been the target. And now, they have a pissed off Star Sapphire on their hands. As she launches an Itano circus of missiles at the two planes, the DRACOS go into evasive manuevers. The missiles shot forward, their path almost serpentine as they followed the intricate trajectories designed to confound and overwhelm. The fighter jets, now fully aware of the imminent threat, engaged their afterburners and veered sharply, hoping to outmaneuver the oncoming assault. Weasel One, piloted by an experienced Air Force veteran, executed a steep climb, banking hard to the left. The second DRACO, Weasel Two, piloted by a tactical prodigy, dove into a sharp roll, trying to weave a path through the aerial minefield.

Despite their skill and precision, the missiles adjusted their course, guided by the power ring's near-perfect control. The jets' maneuvers, while expertly performed, seemed almost clumsy in the face of such relentless pursuit. Weasel One narrowly avoided a missile by a hair's breadth, only for another to intercept it in the same instant. Weasel Two, despite its intricate roll, found itself constantly outmatched, the missiles adapting in real-time to every evasive action.

The two pilots communicated in terse, urgent bursts over their comms, coordinating their movements in a desperate attempt to find a gap. But the Carol's ring's energy was relentless. Each missile seemed to anticipate their every move, curving and twisting with an unnatural precision. The jets weaved and ducked, their pilots' faces illuminated by the intense glow of the approaching projectiles, the stress and concentration visible even through their visors.

Weasel One, having narrowly evaded yet another missile, felt a jarring shudder as a different missile exploded nearby, sending shockwaves through the airframe. The pilot fought to maintain control, gritting their teeth as the jet was pushed off its intended course. The Weasel Two, equally beleaguered, pulled a high-speed loop-de-loop, but the maneuver only drew it closer to a cluster of missiles, forcing it to break away and execute an emergency descent.

As Carol led the missiles along their path to destruction and wrath, the sky was soon filled with a dazzling display of near-misses and evasive maneuvers. Weasel One made a daring dive, only to be forced to climb sharply again as a missile veered toward it. Weasel Two, trying to counter by splitting off from its companion, was caught in a tight spiral, its pilot fighting to regain control as the missiles closed in.

In the end, despite their superior training and piloting skills, the fighter jets found themselves overwhelmed by the relentless assault. The missiles, guided with precision by Carol's power ring, managed to find their marks, creating a dazzling, catastrophic ballet of explosions and fire as the jets were finally forced into evasive maneuvers that left them vulnerable. Both planes were vaporized in the explosions of detonating missiles, jet fuel and munitions. In the distance, two white parachutes hovered towards the ground, their efforts vain against the power of Star Sapphire's love.

Hal Jordan has posed:
Of course Hal Jordan has logged more active combat duty then most Air Force pilots could even dream of matching or duplicating. Most of that hasn't come inside a cockpit of course, but instead wrapped up in a field of emerald force. And at least as much of it as not has come in the void of space, or on strange and distant alien worlds.

Still, it all counts at moments like this and it is not as if he never saw combat missions during his time in the military.Given his sometimes disregard for the rules, the fact that he made Captain at all, especially at the age that he managed it, is testimony enough to his gifts behind the stick.

While he might not be truly fearless in the sense that so many Green Lantern members have been throughout the ages and eons, he nevertheless has certainly shown that he is fully capable of overcoming great fear.

Which is a good thing, because as those two missiles continue to hone in on his aircraft, there might be a few moments of anxiety, even for him.

There is no way of doubling back again, no way of leading those missiles back into that track, of arranging for them to slam intoCarol's violet bubble of force. And while shaking the first pair of lock ons is no small demonstration of skill, there are limits. Without flares or chaffe, without any sort of electronic jamming module equipped, without any other viable countermeasures onboard the outcome was always inevitable.

And as those Sidewinder missiles close that distance with shocking, evening frightening speed, his one consideration?

Hopefully Ferris Aircraft is not on the hook under these circumstances.

He waits longer then he should really, waits until the very last second really before he grudgingly gives up the F-22 as lost. He gives the flight stick one last regretful pat before bailing on the craft, punching the eject button as the canopy blasts away, practically shreded by the sheer wind velocity at the speeds they are travelling.

Then his seat is hurled upwards, rocking him back as it explodes up out of the cockpit with tremendous force, just a second or two before those two missiles slam into the doomed craft, consuming it in the pair of explosions that rip through the craft.

Maybe he was still a little too close to that explosion. Maybe some debris hurled from the blast is what damages his flight seat, but either way, when he goes to deploy the parachute, nothing happens. Instead he begins to plummet back down towards the earth below, distant for the moment. But it will rise up all too quickly as that seat and pilot within begins to tumble end over end.

Even then he is able to pick out Carol, pick out her response. Even with the comms no longer working for him, it isn't hard to imagine just what she'll have to say to him, about his stubborn refusal to wear that ring. How indredibly idiotic it is -- even moreso given some of the enemies heh as. Some of whom are well aware that Green Lantern and Hal Jordan are one and the same.

He only catches the occasional glimpse of those purple streaks that hone in on the Lizard League jets relentless, watching as they find their mark, blowing the two crafts out of the sky, two more firey explosions lighting up the restricted air space.

And he tumbles, free falling down towards the swiftly approaching ground.

And he closes his eyes.

Miles away, back at ground control, back in the locker room where he got changed, got ready for this flight the door to his locker suddenly slams open, blown back by the bright, shimmering green light that bursts through and explodes out the door, racing through the air. It cuts through the intervening distance as if it is practically nothing, streaking low across the ground below, weaving over roads, over homes and businesses. Over low-flung hills and wooded copses.

Hal Jordan has posed:
Hal doesn't need an altimeter to know that he is swiftly running out of time. The ground looms up closer and closer, mere seconds away. Which is when he spots the green streak slashing through the sky towards him.

And the dark haired man smiles.

There is a tremendous crash as that flight seat plows into the ground at terminal velocity, smashing into it, sending up a flurry of turf and dirt. And as the debris settles, hovering there above the impact crater is Hal Jordan, the Green Lantern, wrapped in that greenish glowing field of Will.

Carol Ferris has posed:
"Lizard League. Let's see you grow that back," Carol murmurs darkly.

She'd had to maintain pace with both of the jets as they twisted and turned and evaded. She wasn't relying on the advanced radar systems of the F-22 to track -- she was relying only on herself, her ring, and her passion. It was.. exhausting, as any combat situation is expected to be. Adrenaline pumps. Time seems to slow. Muscles tense well beyond their normal limits. Blood pumps furiously through a heart being more than twice its normal rate.

Fight or flight... and today she chose fight.

It's retribution, perhaps. It could certainly look like retribution. There's also an inkling of her higher purpose, however. If those two jets were willing to engage them, what other havoc had they intended?

It didn't matter, anymore. The military would clean up the mess. No doubt SHIELD would get involved with something that called themselves the Lizard League, if they weren't already. But Carol didn't care. Her only concern, now, was Hal.

The F-22 rocked on its center axis and nosed back over towards where Hal had been shot down, Carol's eyes scanning through that helmet display for any sign of him as the jet streaks across the landscape.

"MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY," she calls, switching over to the emergency comms now that the channels are clear. "Raptor and two bogeys down. Highball, this is Sapphire. Do you -- HIGHBALL!"

Her voice was suddenly choked. She'd caught sight of him, just as his ejection seat without its parachute plowed into the landscape. It was only a glimpse before her jet raced past.

"NO!"

She was reaching for her own ejection button. She didn't care about the plane. She didn't care about any of it. It was all she could do not to use her ring to cleave her own plane in half and fly to him...

But just as her finger hovered over the eject switch, her nose cone once more cleared the sight of the crash, and she caught sight of that familiar green glow. The next sound that leaves her lips is something between a choked sob and a whoop of joy.

She brings her ring up in front of her, willing it to call out to Hal's even as she steers her plane towards the closest airbase.

Hal Jordan has posed:
Cut off one head and two more will take it's place!

Wait, no, that's an entirely different evil organization but still vaguely lizard themed.

Emerging from that crater with it's scant amount of wreckage, the fall and sheer velocity of it all leaving very little remaining, Hal hovers there for a moment longer as he peers heavenward, watching as the debris of the two downed 'Lizard League' jets rain its debris across the nearby grounds.

The fact that they happen to be in the MOA makes it reasonably likely that there is little worry of additional collateral damage, which is something. But with one jet scratched, and at least one drone finished as well, it might have already been a costly enough day for everyone involved.

Hopefuly the extenuating circumstances will take Ferris off the hook for the jet at least. He's a pretty damn fine pilot, but Hal is almost certain that there was nothing he could have done to save the aircraft. And he's reasonably sure that any investigation will bear that out.

It does occur to him however that he might want to let Carol know that he's alright. Chances are the emerald glow will do that soon enough -- it is not entirely impossible that she will simply know because of their bond when you get right down to it. She was able to summon him from across space because of it afterall.

Still, given his refusal to wear that ring while flying -- in a plane at least where he's the pilot -- and given the somewhat harrowing nature of the last few moments, a courtesy check-in is probably the least he can do.

So he rises, shooting straight up into the sky as he falls into formation with her plane. He loves this to. The rush isn't exactly the same, flying like this, but it is every bit as good. And it comes with it's own compensations as he settles in directly above her, rapping his knuckles against the roof of that canopy.

"Thanks for serving as my blocker," he says, his ring easily tapping into the comm system, insuring that nothing they say will be recorded. A 'glitch' in the system. "I suppose it's safe to say I can expect another discussion later about the merits about keeping the ring with me at all times, at least when we're out of the apartment?" he suggests wryly.

Yes, he can summon it. And it will come to him fast. Damn fast. But another couple of miles away? Another few miles deeper into the MOA? It's questionable whether it would have reached him in time.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Carol needs more than a glimpse at a green glow to know that Hal is okay, and after a few seconds, she gets it.. in the form of that tapping on her canopy that has her glancing up at the man flying above her.

He can't see her face through that insectoid helmet, but he can imagine it as her shoulders slump.

"I've been your blocker for years, Hal," she answers, still looking up at him. It's a _very_ tongue-in-cheek reference to all the time she spent _not_ being his girlfriend, but also very much not wanting anyone else to be his girlfriend, either. "What's one more sidewinder between us?"

She takes in a breath and lets it out slowly.

"No... I think that just about covers the fly-bys," she quotes Top Gun, but the tension is still there in her voice. Did she _want_ to yell at him about it? Was she still keyed up from WATCHING HIM DIE TWICE?!

Yes. Very much.

"You can start making it up to me by escorting me all the way back to base before you go pretend to have limped away from the crash site. I could use an excuse for how I managed to splash two F-15s with a clean ship, and you make a.. pretty good alibi."

She pauses, then, reaching up to flatten her hand against the top of her canopy.

"And tonight you can finish making it up to me."

Hal Jordan has posed:
He has almost certainly given her a scare.

Despite what they both do, what they are capable of and the kinds of enemies they have -- at least when their respective uniforms go on... hers more flattering then his -- it is a little different when the rings don't come into play. In their hands there is little that they can't do with them, or so it seems. That makes little threats seem almost inconsequential.

But when they don't have their rings with them? They're just Hal and Carol. They might be exceptional in their own way, but that way doesn't give them any unique powers or abilities. Just a host of competence and fearlessness and ability.

None of which will save on in the middle of an exploding plane.

Some part of her probably knew deep down that he would find a way to come through this, as he always did. For his part, Hal never really had a second's doubt, though if he considers the timing of it all -- considers just how close he came to being well and truly splattered -- he might want to rethink that certainty.

But knowing something intellectually is very different then feeling it deep down, in your core.

"This is true," he allows, smiling down at her through that transparent polycarbonate plastic canopy. "And I couldn't ask for a better one," he says, flashing that disarming grin.

It's not that he isn't taking the situation seriously. Some crazies in fighter jets just tried to splash them, to kill them, and they really have no idea why. But right now he's more interested in calming her down, reassuring her.

So he lifts a hand to his forehead and flicks a playful salute her way before rolling away, moving to fly at her wingside -- in admittedly a much tighter formation then even he would dare if he was still in his fighter. "Yes ma'am. That does seem like the least I can do," he agrees. "On the bright side, I'm pretty sure that even the Board can't pin this one on me," he points out wryly.

Though he is sure a couple of them will try.

"It's a date. I'm going to make it up to you so good your head will spin," he promises.