The wailing of sirens echoed across the MOA Complex as the alarm blared to life.
Red warning lights bathed the airfields and perimeter walls in a harsh glow. Soldiers sprinted to designated posts. Anti-air batteries—systems that had been hastily welded together from salvaged Patriot launchers, Phalanx CIWS turrets, and locally-upgraded missile systems—whirred and locked into firing positions.
"Spectre Actual to Command," the battered AC-130 pilot called. His voice was strained. "We're final approach. Twenty seconds out. Hull compromised. Rear stabilizers damaged. Requesting immediate cover fire."
"You're cleared," Thomas replied. "AA batteries are online. Marcus?"
"Anti-air network primed. Sector North and West turrets locked on. East and South warming up."
On the tarmac, the ground crews scrambled, flares in hand, illuminating the landing zones with green markers. Emergency teams with hoses and welding kits waited near the hangars.
