He ignited his repulsors and shot back toward the altitude he had lost, returning to the thin, serene air above the clouds.
The pilot of Time Whip One, highly trained and flying on pure instinct, had already reacquired the target. The jet screamed behind him and began strafing with its heavy 20mm M61 Vulcan machine gun.
The stream of depleted uranium rounds, fired at an impossible rate, formed a whip-like motion that lashed through the air, chasing the heat signature of the Mark III.
Tony tried to dodge the incandescent trace, but a few heavy rounds still clipped the edges of his armor. Each impact, though not piercing, transferred colossal kinetic energy, causing the Mark III to violently veer off course, rattling the already stressed suit frame.
"Jarvis, I'm in a passive, predictable position. This isn't a solution. I'm just a target dummy!" Tony yelled, his breathing ragged.
"Sir, sustained exposure to the Vulcan cannon at this velocity will lead to primary structural failure in less than thirty seconds. Recommendation: Execute radical deceleration maneuver," Jarvis advised calmly.
"Open the ailerons! Emergency deployment!" Tony commanded.
The wing-like air brakes behind him, normally used for controlled, high-speed deceleration or emergency braking, slammed open. This instantly created a massive drag chute, radically reducing Tony's forward momentum. Combined with the F-22's closing speed, the Mark III decelerated so violently that the jet—unable to react in time—shot right past him.
In a breathtaking reversal, Tony, leveraging the few milliseconds of the pilot's confusion, accelerated again. He dropped down and hid directly underneath the immense metallic fuselage of the fighter jet, a tiny, red and gold shadow clinging to the belly of the beast.
Meanwhile, Leo continued his reckless, almost insulting demonstration in front of Time Whip Two.
The F-22 pilot—Time Whip Two—was now officially having a nervous breakdown. He fired a renewed burst from his own Vulcan cannon, and the silver shadow continued to dance, completely untouched. Under Leo's precise mental command, the machine gun bullets grazed just centimeters away from him, weaving an invisible, shimmering tapestry of failure around the armor. The replacement AIM-9 missiles fired by the pilot were all deflected with the same invisible touch, twisting off their trajectory to plummet harmlessly, unable to get close at all.
The pilot of Time Whip Two simply thought his bullets had missed due to turbulence, that he was spectacularly unlucky, and that his brand-new missile's guidance system had catastrophically malfunctioned.
Maybe I left the stove on? Is this karma? he thought, questioning every life choice that had led him to chase a flying action figure that was apparently immune to physics. He was starting to seriously doubt the competence of the entire military-industrial complex.
Believing he had successfully eliminated the target, Time Whip One reported back to the command center: "Target One neutralized. Moving to assist Time Whip Two on the silver anomaly." The pilot of Time Whip One adjusted his flight path and began to move closer to his wingman.
Tony, who was clinging desperately to the belly of Time Whip One, was starting to feel the profound strain of the mission. The earlier tank shell, the near-misses with the Sidewinder missile, and the repeated machine gun impacts had rattled him.
The Mark III was venting excess heat from localized damage, and his body was starting to protest—bruised, exhausted, and feeling the early onset of internal trauma. Even the holographic projected image of his control panel was flickering, growing unstable.
At the command center, Colonel Rhodes' personal cell phone buzzed. It was Tony Stark calling back.
Seeing the caller ID—and knowing the colossal security incident currently unfolding on the satellite feed—Rhodes instantly guessed the reality. He felt a sickening drop in his stomach. He looked nervous, stepped away from the main console, and answered the call, his voice tight.
"Hi, Rod, it's me."
"What?" Rhodes's voice was a strained whisper of pure disbelief.
"Excuse me, Rod. It's me. The 'unidentified flying object' you just asked about, the big red and gold one? That's me."
"Tony! Stop messing around! This isn't a game! You absolutely cannot bring unauthorized, civilian, potentially offensive hardware into my goddamn battlefield, do you understand!?" Rhodes hissed, gripping the phone so hard his knuckles were white.
"That's not equipment! I'm inside it! It's just an outer shell! I am the flying object!" Tony shouted anxiously, his voice laced with genuine panic this time. "Rod, listen, the armor is damaged on the outside, my vital signs are climbing, and the entire virtual control panel is starting to destabilize! We just got hit by a tank and a Sidewinder! Look at your screen—the silver one, the other flying object? That's Leo! We came to clean up the mess in Gomila!"
Rhodey's eyes snapped to the satellite feed in the command center, staring blankly at the silver figure dancing around the F-22. Tony has shrunk? And that kid is flying a toy? The sheer audacity was staggering.
Both fighter jets had converged. The two pilots, Time Whip One and Two, were now executing a high-speed, synchronized chase, both focusing their fire on the single silver anomaly.
Tony didn't care about anything else. He only knew his friend now knew the truth, and Leo was in double the danger.
Both fighter jets opened fire simultaneously, unleashing an inferno of bullets at Leo.
Leo's eyes, magnified within his helmet, narrowed in concentration. He had only nineteen control points of mental strength; he couldn't maintain the precise deflection of hundreds of rounds simultaneously while flying at this speed. He made a conscious, broad application of his power.
With a rapid mental wave, he forced the metal jacketed rounds into a conscious avoidance pattern. The bullets whizzed past, creating a highly abnormal, perfectly empty tunnel in the barrage, centered precisely on the silver armor.
Still too much strain, Leo thought, pulling back slightly. He considered the nuclear option: shutting down the fighter jets' electronics and forcing a controlled glide. But Tony was currently hiding under one of them, and the pilots were just unaware followers. He couldn't risk a mid-air electrical failure.
However, the pilot of Time Whip Two, scanning the area to adjust his targeting, noticed a peculiar metallic reflection under the fuselage of his wingman, Time Whip One.
"Time Whip One, check your belly! I've got a visual on a metallic reflection—possibly shrapnel or a secondary target!"
The pilot of Time Whip One received the warning and instantly knew. With extreme prejudice, he began to execute a violent, high-G acceleration and spin. After only a few rapid rotations, the centrifugal force became unbearable. Tony could no longer hold on. His damaged, slick hands slipped from the smooth metal, and the Mark III was thrown backward like a stone from a sling.
It swept past Leo and slammed violently into the engine housing of the Eagle Two behind him.
Leo's silent armor reacted instantly. He surged forward, grabbing the tumbling, damaged Mark III mid-air, pulling it tightly to his side like a protective parent.
"Mr. Stark, I think we need to speed things up a bit," Leo's voice was grim.
"Jarvis, divert all non-essential power to propulsion. Do it, Leo. Go, go, go!" Tony shouted, battered but not beaten.
With a determined heart, the golden light around Leo's armor didn't just brighten—it exploded, turning into a visible halo of raw kinetic force. Leo focused his entire being, pushing past his current limits. The silver armor, still holding the Mark III, surged from Mach 1 to an astonishing, violent Mach 3. The change in velocity was so sudden, so impossible, that the resulting sonic boom ripped through the clouds like a physical tear in the sky.
In an instant, the two armors left the two F-22 fighter jets far behind, appearing as nothing more than rapidly shrinking specks.
"Command Center, they're gone! They just hit Mach 3! We can't maintain pursuit speed without risking structural integrity!" Time Whip Two reported, the panic evident in his voice.
"Chase after them! Relock on! If there's an opportunity, shoot them down!" Colonel Davis shouted, refusing to accept the defeat.
The two fighter jets, though struggling, accelerated again, trying desperately to close the gap.
"Colonel Davis, stand down! You are violating protocol! You are now pursuing American citizens! I order you to recall those planes!" Rhodes thundered, stepping back onto the main line, but the Colonel ignored him.
"That thing appeared in a legally designated no-fly zone, destroyed military-grade hardware, and did not respond to hails! Time Whip One, if there is an opportunity, shoot it down immediately!" The Colonel was too invested in the military outcome to be deterred by the Colonel from Weapons Development.
The two fighter jets continued to chase and fire at the two figures, trying to catch up. Meanwhile, the Mark III could not withstand such prolonged high speeds. The intense aerodynamic friction caused extreme heat, and the flickering holographic image inside Tony's helmet became wildly unstable, cycling through error codes.
"Leo, the Mark III can't handle sustained Mach 3! The structural integrity is failing! We need an exit strategy!" Stark shouted, his voice strained. "Hopefully, Rhodes can convince the pencil-pushers to call off the air support soon."
"Mr. Stark, what's your preference? Shall we simply outrun these two planes, or take them down?"
"Outrun! We need to maintain deniability!"
The two fighter jets fired countless bullets again, whizzing past the two men.
"Wait!" Tony suddenly snapped, a manic idea forming. "Perhaps... perhaps we can shoot one down, but ensure the pilot's safety. At worst, I'll just have to pay for a replacement plane. Think of it as a very expensive, dramatic warning shot to the Pentagon."
Leo didn't need a second invitation. With a precise, almost surgical flick of his wrist, he sent a surge of kinetic energy into the structural weak points of the Time Whip One fighter jet. Both wings, already stressed by the sudden high-G maneuvers, broke off simultaneously with loud snaps, bursting into small sheets of white-hot friction fire. The aircraft instantly became unstable, pitching violently before beginning a rapid, uncontrolled spin, descending quickly into the distance.
"Ejection! Eject now! Get out! Get out!" the pilot screamed into his radio.
The canopy blew off, and a figure was ejected into the sky.
The fighter jet, now crippled, slowed its descent. Leo released the Mark III, which wobbled precariously from the sudden shock.
"Sir, a malfunction has been detected in the parachuting pilot's equipment. The primary deployment mechanism has failed," Jarvis warned, scanning the falling figure due to Tony's sudden attention.
A desperate burst of fire erupted from the tail of the Mark III as Tony plunged downwards, a red and gold streak closely following the rapidly falling figure. This was a man, not a missile.
The command center, watching the live feed of the F-22 spiraling toward the ocean, erupted in complete, utter chaos. If there were any casualties, it would trigger a geopolitical nightmare, and everyone—especially Colonel Davis—would face a court-martial.
Leo also rushed down, using his greater speed to cover the distance quickly, while Time Whip Two, now flying solo, followed suit, diving down to confirm the crash.
The atmosphere in the command room was agonizingly tense. They seemed to have finally pieced together the sequence of events, recognizing the flying object was attempting a rescue, and they silently prayed.
The Mark III caught up to the free-falling pilot. Tony, with perfect timing, punched the manual trigger on the pilot's chute pack with a powerful but controlled blow from his gauntlet, successfully deploying the parachute.
The command center erupted, this time in sheer, chaotic celebration. Everyone cheered, slapping shoulders, relief washing over them in a tidal wave.
Colonel Rhodes, seizing the moment, forcefully ordered the remaining fighter jet, Time Whip Two, to return to base. With its nose raised, Time Whip Two took off again, leaving the wreckage behind.
Rhodes' voice, now laced with relief and a touch of manic hysteria, came through Tony's comms: "Tony, are you still listening, you lunatic?"
"Hey, thanks, Rhodey. Saved my hide."
"My God, are you out of your mind, you absolute bastard?" Rhodes laughed, a mix of lingering fear and immense relief. "You just cost the US military a cutting-edge F-22 Raptor! You owe me a fighter jet, you know that?"
"But strictly speaking, I also saved one, didn't I?" Tony shot back, laughing happily, already feeling the adrenaline drain away. "I think the paperwork cancels out. Want to see what I'm researching next week?"
"No, no, no! The less I know, the better for my conscience and my career! How am I supposed to explain this to the media, Tony?"
"Relax, man. Just take this whole thing and call it a high-altitude, top-secret, joint-agency training exercise gone slightly sideways. Isn't that how you usually fool people, Colonel?"
Leo listened to Tony and Rhodes' bickering and stories all the way back to their secluded seaside villa in Malibu.
Meanwhile, the media, alerted by the emergency activity and the rumors of a high-altitude crash, quickly gathered at government departments. The Air Force, forced into damage control, immediately held a high-stakes press conference.
Rhodes, his face stern and unmoving, stepped in to perform the impossible spin. He continued to use the tried-and-true tactic of a "top-secret, advanced aerospace drill and training" to explain the flight accident.
He simultaneously seized the opportunity to describe the shocking destruction in the town of Gomila, forcefully clarifying that the US government was absolutely not involved in the explosion, and condemning the mysterious force that perpetrated the attack. He spun the narrative perfectly: American heroes, even in training, were capable of saving lives when things went wrong.
Miles away, Obadiah Stane sat at home watching the live broadcast on TV. He saw the mushroom cloud over Gomila in the news footage, heard the official story about "training exercises," and watched Rhodes' practiced lie. His brow furrowed deeply, the casual menace in his eyes hardening into cold calculation.
The explosion was too precise, too powerful, and too conveniently timed with the disappearance of the stolen Jericho supply.
This isn't the work of some desperate terrorist group playing with bombs. This is organized, high-tech, and personal, he realized. Only one person has the audacity, the motive, and the capability to pull this off.
"Contact my pilot. I need to go to Gomila. And don't tell anyone I'm leaving," Obadiah muttered, holding his secure phone to his ear. He had to inspect the wreckage firsthand, to confirm his terrible suspicion.