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Renegade: Chapter 1: Part 3“Wow.” That was all Lozupone could mutter, gazing over the TacCom. She and Ramirez had walked onto a small balcony that encircled the entire TacCom, down on the floor, about three meters below. The room was circular, about fifteen meters in diameter, and filled with technicians and officers, bustling about, completing tasks. Above workstations, there were banks of video monitors, receiving data feeds from all over the base.
Ramirez and Lozupone followed the balcony around towards the back of the TacCom, where the sloping floor ended at a single chair, set in an alcove in the wall, where an older looking man was sitting, dressed similarly to Ramirez and Lozupone.
“Commander Michael Ramirez, commander, 238th Mobile Infantry Unit, reporting, sir.”
“Lieutenant Commander Krista Lozupone, Executive Officer, 238th MIU, sir.”
Both Ramirez and Lozupone quickly snapped smart salutes, clicking their heels together, waiting for the base commander to reply. He rose, gave them a salute as well, and brought his hand down, and beckoned Ramirez’ and Lozupone’s hands down as well.
“Lieutenant Colonel David Farrell, Base CO here at Fort Jacobs. Welcome.” He extended his hand, and, after a moment, Ramirez extended his, clasping it firmly and shaking hard. Lozupone did the same.
“As you can see, we’re quite busy bringing full capabilities on line here. Where have you two arrived from?”
Ramirez went to work, describing the past few days. “Sir, we arrived a few hours ago aboard Eagle 7, Buzzard-type Behemoth Transport. As far as we can tell, we were the only remaining ship that survived from 84th Strike Fleet, on course for Mar Sara. We sustained heavy damage, including attempted boarding. Twelve members of our sixty marine unit were lost, sir.”
Farrell stood from his chair, where he had been accessing the AI and it had been feeding him information. He smiled warmly, his old face crinkling along stress lines.
“Sorry to hear about your men, Commander Ramirez. It’s always tough losing your command. Especially when you can’t do anything about it.” Farrell eyes crinkled as he sighed. “However, before you go on with your brief, please understand a few things about how I run my command here.” He began to walk down towards the officers’ quarters, located down a corridor at the front of TacCom, and signaled for Ramirez and Lozupone to follow. “I have a few … rules, or at least suggestions, while you’re here.” They walked into a conference room, and the door hissed shut. Jacobs sat down, and offered seats to Ramirez and Lozupone, who both remained standing.
Farrell chuckled, smiling. “First, we’re completely informal in TacCom. It makes a better work environment. You call me Colonel, sir, and nothing else, at least to my face. I’ll call you Mike or Krista,” he said, looking at each of the two of them. “Second, I follow an ages old motto, one that has applied to everyone under my command during my military career. ‘Ask and you shall receive.’ If you want to, or need to do something, do not hesitate to ask. Chance are, you’ll get it, and if not, I’ll have good reason as to why.”
“Thank you Colonel.” Ramirez smiled, and relaxed from standing at attention. Lozupone followed suit, and both sat down at the mahogany conference table.
“So what were you saying about an evening deployment tonight?” Farrell asked.
Lozupone spoke first this time. “Well, actually sir, we’ve been on a ship for about three weeks. I want to get my men out there and have a little fun. The 238th is a crack unit. We operate as first strike shock troopers, but have not had adequate supplies for any sort of practice run in the past several months. Furthermore, we’ve been cooped up on a transport for the past three weeks. We came with six FAV-13s, and the boys are itchin’ for some action.”
“Hmm, you guys pack a punch,” said Farrell, rocking slowly in his chair. “It’s about 1530 now. What time did you want to go out? Nothing is out here. We’ve been stationed now for approximately seven months, and all the terrain to the horizon has been scouted out. If you’d like, we can have a ship transport you out to some new terrain, if you’d like, or you can operate under sensor cover, before the line of bunkers. They’re about twenty clicks out. Each has a signal booster, so they can cover you and watch your backs. If you’d like, I can arrange for another unit to go with you. The 950th has been here, and hasn’t run any drills yet.”
“What time were you thinking of going on the run tonight?”
Lozupone glanced at her chronograph. “Actually, sir, we were looking at going at about 2200 CST tonight. Standard runs take about four hours. We’d finish up at 0200 or so, and we could report for duty at 1000, tomorrow morning.”
Ramirez leaned forward, and sourly spat out, “Speaking of which, what exactly will our duties entail?”
“Actually, I had nothing in mind for you,” smiled Farrell. “We’ll be sitting here for a few more weeks before another ‘expected’ transport comes in. We’re under communications blackout, but we’re managing. Military High Command thinks this would be a great place to turn
‘resocialized’ conscripts into elite members of the corps. The next transport will be arriving in twenty days. You can leave then, if you’d like, or you and your men may remain behind to train the new enlistees. It’s purely up to you. If your transport is repaired, you could leave then, too.”
“Thank you sir,” Ramirez spoke next. “In respect to the mission tonight, does your sensor net include holographic projection equipment?”
Farrell nodded.
“Excellent, sir. I can get my tech guys to rig some holoprojectors that we could use tonight. They’re small, compact, and we can just drop them from a Osprey or Skimmer, and run the mission under more realistic settings.” Ramirez smiled. “Sir, have you ever observed a battle against the Zerg without the fear of being taken down?”
Farrell’s eyes widened and brightened. “No I have not. Would you mind if I came along? I’d be interested to see how this simulation of yours works. Maybe we can apply it to training the new recruits. Both of you, report to Starport 3-4 at 1955, with your unit and vehicles, in full battle dress, for this evening. I’ll have two Osprey-class Dropships waiting, along with an HAPC for observation and coordination of the maneuvers this evening.”
Ramirez and Lozupone stood, smiling at each other. They saluted, and Farrell just gave them a mock salute in return. They shouted in unison, “YESSIR!” and turned to leave, find their quarters, and get ready for the coming night. But first, they had prior dinner engagements.
***
“NO! CLOSE THE VENT FIRST!” shouted Hawkers into the mike in her SRV tug, as she manipulated the welding arm in front of the viewport directly ahead of her.
Culmers’ reply came through, tinny, over the speaker in her headset. “Roger that. Closing … okay, we’re clear. Go ahead and start cutting.”
“Thank you!” said Jamie Hawkers in relief and frustration. She and Akesen were in two different Space Repair Vehicle tugs, hovering around the port side of the hole in the hull of Eagle 7. After numerous attempts to shut off all remaining fuel lines in the locale of the hole, the final one powering the port lateral hovervent was shut off. Now, she and Akesen could go to work in earnest, removing the damaged section of the hull, but glancing at her chronograph, she realized the time. It was 1727 CST.
“OH SHIT! DINNER!”
***
“Hmm … I wonder where they are, Mike,” said Lozupone, glancing at her chronograph. It was 1823 CST.
Ramirez answered her. “Runnin’ late – c’mon Krista. You know these pilot folks. They never make their deadlines.”
“Yeah yeah.”
As if on cue, the doors at the end of the Starport Officer’s Mess Hall slid up into the ceiling with a pronounced ‘hiss,’ and Hawkers, Akesen, and Freeman strode in, down to the end of the table where Ramirez and Lozupone were seated. They stood, and greetings were curtly exchanged. All five moved over to the side of the room, where the refresher station was located. Meals were selected from the revolving dumbwaiter, and everyone sat down before saying another word.
As they sat and opened their pre-wrapped meals, Hawkers popped the question to break the ice. “So, even though I know we were on the same ship for a few weeks, we didn’t get to know each other. Tell me a little about yourselves.” She sat, toying with her food.
Ramirez and Lozupone chewed their food for a moment, and Ramirez decided to speak first. “Well, JJ, I don’t know where to begin. I’m from Salaris, where I think …” he flipped over his food tray. “Yeah. Our meals, and almost all the food for the Corps, come from there. I have thirteen siblings. And I’m the only one who joined came here. To the corps, that is. Salarian farming didn’t work out for me. Too boring.” Michael Ramirez smiled, his eyes crinkling ever so slightly.
“I served two tours with Alpha Squadron on the front lines, before settling down from Active Duty status. Actually, I was still going through Basic Cadet Training on Tarsonis when the damn Zerg first arrived on Char. We ended BCT halfway through the year – Everyone there at the time was equipped and rushed to the heat. Those fuckers.” Ramirez sighed. “We were destroyed. I don’t know if even a tenth of our class came out alive. And there were ten thousand people in my class at the academy on Tarsonis. Ten thousand. We were massacred. I couldn’t believe it.
After a moment, Ramirez continued. “After a few months of fighting and continually losing ground, a new series of units came in, and we we’re relegated to plugging holes for the squads on the front. Finally, my class formed up into three units – the 513th, 969th, and 202nd. We got new XOs and COs who whipped us into shape. I began with the 513th, and we went from low morale to crack troops in less than six weeks. Really.
“After I was promoted and transferred to the 238th a few years ago, I did my best to emulate a positive appearance, despite all my hardships before. I do my best with our men, but, you know, as I’ve found, it’s not that easy. And the frippin’ Confederacy has been such a hard ass to me and my men. We always were on back log rosters, never getting new supplies or equipment. Then, we turn around and are retrofitted with all our new gear, packed onto your freighter, and ship off to Zerg space,” he said, nodding to the officers from Eagle 7. “That’s why we were never above decks – half the time, we were poppin’ at each other with pellet guns, letting the men get back into their CMC suits. Would you believe it?? My men were using CMC-300s for the first time in two years. Two years. Half of them couldn’t stand back up when they put them on.
“Look,” continued Ramirez, “the Confederacy screwed us over. The 238th has been treated like dog shit. We have gotten NOTHING from them. And they’re expecting us to go in and wipe out a planet of Zerg, just like that. We would’ve been creamed. Just like that.” Ramirez sneered.
He leaned back in his chair slowly, thoughtful, as he tried to completely digest everything he had just said. As he crossed his legs and leaned back from the table, Lozupone took this cue to begin talking. She slouched forward, resting her left forearm and elbow on the table, as she played with the rest of her meal. “Yeah, although Ramirez and I have discussed the supply shortage with our unit, these new toys they gave us are fun. I have my bones to pick with the Confederacy, too, but they’re a little bit different.”
“I was born and raised on Mandrowl. BCT there was a joke. Our moon was nothing more than a giant sphere of water in space. The Commandant was an idiot, and more interested in god-knows-what, instead of training hard, tough soldiers. I loved the military, and grew up as a child doodling pictures like the recruitment ads instead of studying hard. I got the grades, sure, but I loved the military. My parents met on Red Man’s Run, back in Confederate space. When my dad was transferred to Mandrowl as Planetary Commander, he took it as a disgrace. He got a backwater job, after twenty years of loyal service to an institution that represented his life.
“I entered the Academy on Mandrowl when I was seventeen, as soon as I was eligible. I did the best I could, driven to do better than my dad had done, I dunno, to somehow get vengeance for his death at the hands of the Confederacy. I graduated third in my class, and after a brief TOD, I got sent to the 238th, where I met Mike here. We’ve been together two years.” she said, gesturing. “But I still hate the Confederacy. Everything. They’ll pay. I won’t let them forget what they did to my family and I.”
On the other side of the table, Hawkers, Akesen, and Freeman had sat, listening intently. Several moments passed, where the only sound was the soft hum of the overhead glow panels and the occasional rumble of machinery.
After some time, Hawkers spoke. “Thank you. That was, um, more than we expected,” she looked at Akesen and Freeman, “but we appreciate it. And don’t worry. We’ve had our hard times too.” Hawkers smiled. “We’re getting’ along fine now, but none of us here like the Feds either. We’ve been cheated out and cut short too many times.
“I started as a pilot. We all did, ‘cept Freeman. He was our chief.” Hawkers shot him a smile. “And we all met on Bromus III. Right near Tarsonis. You’d think, being near the ‘enlightened capital’ that we would have had it a little better, in terms of equipment, than some of the other units. No way.
“We were the 131st Wing. 72 pilots, 72 wraiths. But we barely had enough supplies to send out our sorties, and didn’t have drones or anything to do simulations. Every time the COs but in requests for missions or tried to set up training operations either on or off planet, they were denied. We were told ‘The current war at hand does not merit training missions. Continue your planetary defense and escort duty operations.’ Bureaucratic assholes.” Hawkers scoffed.
“I put in transfers for three years to get out of the 131st. Finally, I got my break as a Dropship pilot. I got promoted to Captain, along with Akesen. We went together, to fly the same bird. A few months later, Freeman here got assigned to us. We ferried troops for a while – two, three years. All over the galaxy, mostly against the Zerg. But occasionally, we were called in to drop some of the ‘good guys’ against a rebellious colony. Then, I was given a Buzzard-class Behemoth Transport. That’s when I really started to loathe the Confederacy.”
Hawkers stopped talking, and Akesen jumped in, to finish the story. “Eagle 7 is currently twenty seven years old. That old Piece Of Shit was, and still is, falling apart. Freeman patched her back up in drydock, when we were first given her. In fact, it was so bad that Eagle 7 wasn’t fitted for in-atmosphere landings. We spent five months pouring over the ship, with minimal help and labor, tinkering with what we could. Everything aboard the ship, now, couldn’t be deciphered by even the best Confederate engineers. They have a pop-out circuit board, we have a serpent’s nest of wires. She’s never in good condition. And she’s not gettin’ better, either.”
Hawkers continued. “Then, we got stuck with assault landings. In a Buzzard, you can’t assault-land. You dive in atmosphere, level out, get torn to shreds. Those birds weren’t build to assault-land. After two landings, we had demolished the underside of the ship – hull dented and scarred, engines venting fuel and plasma off board, losing hull sections as we came down. And, of course, we never were able to get the replacement parts we needed. Both times we assaulted somewhere, we would limp back to drydock and, for a few months, scrounge around to steal parts from old freighters and repair what we could.”
Before she could continue, Lozupone interrupted her, and grabbed Ramirez’ wrist and looked at her chronograph. “Guys, we’d love to stay and talk and discuss the defunct ships or lack of equipment, but we two have a date with the 238th. We’re running a drill tonight. And it’s almost 2000 CST. We have less about two hours to suit up and lay out the holoprojectors for the nighttime run.”
As everyone at the table stood, Ramirez extended his hand again to shake that of Hawkers. He took her hand firmly, and clasped it tightly. “JJ, you and your guys want to join us tonight? We need some tactical people to run our simulation for us, and plus, you can get to see some real fighting.”
“Well, thank you. I’d love to, but I don’t know about the rest of our crew …” she said. Glancing at Akesen and Freeman on either side of her, she got nods thumbs-up, with a smile thrown in as well.
“Sure, we’ll come. When and where, Commander?” Hawkers chuckled, pulling her hand back, as Ramirez did the same.
“Actually, JJ, I’m going to send up two of my tech guys. They can load a Skimmer or two with the holoprojectors, and you can drop them off. Return back here, and we’ll take two Ospreys and an HAPC.”
The group of five Confederate servants strode to the entrance, back down the sides of the officer’s mess hall. As the door hissed into the ceiling and Ramirez and Lozupone headed for the elevator, Ramirez called out.
“Fighter deck. They’ll bring the gear. You bring you plane.”
“Roger that. Twenty minutes, tops.” Hawkers shouted back, down the corridor, as she turned to take an escalator up to her quarters to prepare for the evening.
***
About twenty minutes later, Captain Jamie Hawkers and Pilot Sarah Cassidy met with the two Technical Operations people from the 238th. Corporals Sean O’neill and James Harris. They had brought a Gravsled, loaded with about a dozen, rather large black tubes.
“What the hell are those?” asked Cassidy, pointing her finger at the holoprojectors, as O’neill positioned the Gravsled underneath the wing of a Skimmer, and Harris switched on the hydraulic arm, to aid in lifting the heavy devices up to the bomb mounts.
“Oh, these? These are our toys for tonight.” Said O’neill, patting a cylinder. “The holoprojectors are used project images of anything, anywhere we want. Tonight, we’ve programmed them to produce holograms of Zergs and their nasty-ass buildings. The guns and weapons to be used tonight, too, will only fire low energy laser pulses or blanks – but the computer on the HAPC will register the weapons fire and accordingly change the hologram on the ground.”
Harris peaked around from the backside of the sloping wing. “In English, it’s like fighting fake Zerg, and havin’ a helluva time. We can’t even die tonight. Well, at least not you – maybe your pride, but that’s another story … ” He laughed.
“Oh,” was all that Cassidy said. “Well, when do I get to fly your plane and you drop your things down to do their work?”
“As soon as we get them loaded on. Go don flight gear, we’ll be ready in ten minutes.” Hawkers and Cassidy strode off, as O’neill and Harris finished attaching the holoprojectors on the underside of the Skimmers.
‘Skimmers,’ or the Khorum Fleet Systems IF/B-2 Atmospheric Support Fighter/Bomber, were standard Confederate planetary defense fighters. They were meant only to be flown in atmosphere, at relatively low altitudes, but many had been modified for upper atmosphere engagements. The name Skimmer had come from the standard Infantry Support role that the IF/B-2 played. Oftentimes during the Guild Wars, IF/B-2s were seen making bombing runs on enemy lines or attacking enemy bunkers and command stations, skimming along the surface to avoid detection. This role suited the IF/B-2 perfectly, as it was heavily armored and built to take a beating, with many redundant systems. Being the first ‘true’ Terran fighter, the IF/B-2 became a familiar sight at any Terran outpost. Less expensive than CF/A-17 Wraiths, and lacking in the state of the art technology, the IF/B-2 Skimmer was produced in bulk and became the most reliable Terran fighter.
Each Skimmer’s nose sloped up, and then turned into the canopy, where the pilot and gunner/RIO sat, with the gunner/RIO sitting down in the nose well and having an unobstructed view of the terrain. The narrow fuselage bulged down along the underside, before slightly widening where the tricycle landing gear was stowed. The drooping wings hung off the top of the fuselage, extending several meters on both sides, where the wingtips were mounted beneath with small, multiple barreled lasers, used primarily as anit-infantry weapons. The body was streamlined, with two boxy engines protruding along the fuselage, beneath the wings. Continuing along the backside, the fuselage lengthened and became smaller, ending with the aileron controls and twin tail segment in the back. Each plane was painted dark ghost gray, except the aft section between the wings and the tail – here it was a lighter gray, and painted in black unit numbers.
Underneath the wing of the second Skimmer, O’neill and Harris were finishing attaching the final holoprojector when Cassidy and Hawkers walked back from the pre-flight briefing room.
Both pilots walked to their respective planes and popped the canopy open, and climbed into the upper seat. O’neill and Harris took their seats in the noses of the two planes. Engines were ignited filling the hangar with metallic whines and roars, as canopies closed and tower clearance was given
Looking out ahead through the nose of the Skimmer, Cassidy saw Hawkers’ plane align along the landing lights. Then, with a flare from the engine coils, the Skimmer accelerated and shot out of the hangar, before pulling through the atmosphere and out of view above the top edge of the hangar opening.
“Skimmer Flight 2-0, you are cleared for take-off. Current time is 2047 CST. Simulation status puts your flight at delivering all payloads by 2130 and returning to Starport 3-4 no later than 2150. Is that clear, pilot?” came the tinny voice through the Cassidy’s headset.
“Yessir,” said Cassidy into the microphone attached to the helmet. “Roger that. Flight 2-0 will be in hangar no later than 2150. Proceeding.”
Sarah Cassidy positioned the plane gunned the throttle. The engines flared up, as she guided the accelerating plane down the runway and into the open air outside the Starport. The Skimmer dropped slightly as it exited the hangar, but Cassidy maintained control of the aging fighter and pushed the throttle forward. Pulling up and out, over the terrain, both pilots and RIOs saw the burnt yellows and browns of the sand from that day slowly melting into soft orange and reds, as the twin suns sank below the horizon.
The two Skimmers rocketed into the cool evening air, casting long shadows across the ground as they descended below the basin rim, headed toward the fast approaching bunker line.
***
Over the headset, O’neill’s voice came through, metallic and distant sounding. “Head for the outcropping way out over there. We’ll reprogram the HAPC to generate some terrain with our projectors, too.”
Hawkers and Cassidy banked their Skimmers to port, snap rolling up on the wing, and shifted course to head for the butte sticking up from the ground, several kilometers outside of the line of bunkers.
“T throttle back to one-third. O’neill and I’ll drop the holoprojectors. Spread out … about two clicks between each a’ ya’. We’ll lay out a two ba’ six grid for tonight … just ta’ make sure we got some horizon specs,” Harris drawled with his heavy southern accent into the microphone.
The Skimmers split formation, with Hawkers heading port, Cassidy starboard. Engines flared brightly, as the two Skimmers flew around the rocky outcropping, and lined up. They descended even lower, almost disappearing as silhouettes in the dark evening. The twin suns had set, shrouding the surface in darkness. The Skimmers blended in perfectly.
Hawkers flew along, hearing chatter between O’neill and Harris. “… now. … now. … now.”
Each time the corporals spoke through the time, a slight thunk was felt through the plane, as a holoprojector was dropped.
Still being over one hundred meters off the ground, the black cylinders fell, before a small parachute deployed, lowering them onto the floor of the desert basin. Upon contact, the sharp end of the cylinder dug in, driving gear teeth into the hardened soil, biting down into the dust. When having sunk down a short distance, the digging stopped, and from the top of the holoprojector, a small radial antenna extended. The antenna relayed a signal back to the HAPC located at Starport 3-4, where Lozupone was waiting for the entire grid to come online.
“Okay, Mike, we’ve dropped all of’em. We’re in the clear. What setup should we run tonight?”
“I dunno Krista … just a standard seek-and-destroy. But, make the Zerg smart this time. And set up some ground obstacles, too.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Lozupone looked out of the tailgate of the HAPC, currently resting on the tarmac surface. She was already outfitted in a standard CMC-300, the heavy armor huge compared to her small frame. Although having lost most of their CMCs when Eagle 7’s hull was ripped open, there was a great plethora of replacements at Fort Jacobs, and Lozupone had requested earlier in the day to Infantry Engineering to obtain the necessary weapons and armor.
While Ramirez and Lozupone were putting the final touches on the mission profile for the evening, the remainder of the 238th was milling around near the transports and their FAV-13s, also waiting on the tarmac, for the Osprey Dropships to appear and open up their bellies. The weapon of choice among the 238th was the C-14g “Impaler” Gauss Rifle, but a few C-16d “Shredder” Repeating Machine guns were present. A couple marines also carried AC-9s, which launched small explosive rockets, for dealing with larger threats. Two snipers were outfitted with the 238th, both carrying long-barreled, semi-automatic MA-122 “Spike” rifles.
Each Fast Action Vehicles was a lightly armored, 4x4 assault car, capable of carrying 6 troops along the side. FAVs were able to go from zero to one hundred thirty kilometers per hour in less than seven seconds. Behind the cabin sat a 20-millimeter machine gun, and two surface-to-air missile racks. Radio whip antennas extended over and across the back of each FAV, whose main responsibility was rapid deployment to ‘hot spots.’ They also provided heavy support to the marines.
“Alright, the grid’s up and running, Mike.” Her voice crackled over the comm..
“Copy that, Krista. Get back here, Dropships’ll be coming up in eight minutes. Time to brief the men. Out.”
***
Several kilometers away, Hawkers and Cassidy were accelerating and gaining altitude to return to the Starport, when a bright flash, followed by a crackling sound and hum, came from the desert floor.
“Holy shit! What was that?!” came Cassidy’s exasperated reply, as she automatically began jinking her fighter, and arming the laser cannons.
“Don’t worry about it, hun,” said Harris, sitting in front of her. “That’s the holoprojectors warming up. Bank an’ look down. You’ll be seein’ some butt-ugly Zergs right ‘bout now.”
Following the suggestion, Hawkers and Cassidy rolled out over the landscape, and dropped their noses, to take a look at the once desert terrain.
“Holy lord,” was all Hawkers could mutter.
Stretching below, what had been a stark desert floor, Hawkers now saw a rocky, jagged landscape interspaced with creep, where sunken and spore colonies had been created. Patrols of hydralisks and zerglings criss-crossed the landscape, and their primordial, computer generated howls could be heard, even over the roar of the engines. In the distance, the spires of a Zerg lair rose into the sky, barely visible in the quickly fading light. Momentarily, a flashing green strobe appeared, somewhat removed from the bulk of the Zerg forces.
“What’s the light for?” asked Cassidy.
O’neill’s voice came through the headset. “Welcome to Mar Sara, ladies and gents. We were attacking here originally, and our objective was the deployment of a tactical nuclear warhead into the primary hive, located up there.” Hawkers saw him point out the canopy, before he continued. “Intel suggested this is what it looked like down there. However, the HAPC computer had given the Zerg extra intelligence tonight, so they have the ability to flank and attack, judging from the purported knowledge of a cerebrate on planet. We need to reach the hive, set our ‘nuke,’ and return to the drop point within four hours. Realistically, that won’t happen. We’re outta shape. It’ll take at max five.”
“I bet five plus, easy, if we ain’t all killed first,” sneered Harris over the comm. “No way. We ain’t got the specs and trainin’ lately. We’s a gonna get killed down there. Easy.”
“No way in HELL!” shouted O’neill. “Bet you drinks for our pilots here and us on the clock for this mission. I’m saying less than five. You say five plus, if we live. Wanna do it?”
“Roger that,” came Harris over the comm. In the darkness of the cockpit, his eyes widened and he smiled. “I’ll take that bet, man.”
“You got it, Harris. Cap’n, Pilot, take us back please. We’re gonna be late. It’s 2141 CST. Gamble ya’ we don’t reach home in time, by 2150.”
“You’re on.” Hawkers spoke in a gruff tone. “Cassidy, fire max burn. We got nine minutes home. Let’s flip some guts.”
“Yes, ma’am,” came Cassidy’s enthusiastic reply. “I’m fallin’ in off your wingtip … now.”
“Gun this bitch home,” was all Hawkers said. She and Cassidy threw the throttles forward at the same time to full burn. The sound from the engines tore through the Skimmers, vibrating and accelerating the planes like a pair of bullets in the night sky.
“Ohhh, jeez!” came the exasperated response from O’neill, sitting in front of Hawkers. “Holy crap, lady, you’re fuckin’ insane!” he screamed, struggling against the acceleration that had rammed him into his seat.
Hawkers just laughed, as she and Cassidy slowly barrel rolled up, and dropped down to follow the desert terrain home. “You owe us one, O’neill.” She smiled.
The two dark planes ripped through the atmosphere, barely 30 meters off the ground. They dodged in and out of protruding rocks and piles of debris that had accumulated on the surface, winding through the crags of the canyons. As the fighters passed, bits of rock and rubble would rattle down the walls, into the darkened canyon abyss, falling forever.
Onto the real Zerg.
A low growling shriek emanated from the canyon’s depths, echoing off the walls as it rose higher into the night sky. No one was there to hear.
Hawkers and Cassidy screamed home, the lights of Fort Jacobs shining brightly in the distance. They gained some altitude, and radioed the tower for landing clearance. The Skimmers pulled in, air brakes and landing jets screeching loudly. The tricycle landing gear extended, and the planes touched down. Before the engines had finished whining down, Hawkers and Cassidy had already unbuckled their restraints and split up; Hawkers went to meet Akesen topside with the Ospreys, Cassidy to find Greauher, with the Wraiths warming up. They were to serve as ‘weapons-hot’ escorts for the mission that evening, in case anything were to go wrong.
***
After Lozupone had finished deploying the holonet for the projectors, she grabbed her gear and walked outside. Ramirez had called the men to attention, and stood in the three remaining squads. The other twelve Jack Knifes had manned the FAVs, two to a vehicle.
Ramirez and Lozupone walked to the front of the formation, and Ramirez began barking orders. “ALRIGHT! LISTEN UP! THIS IS A SIMULATION EXERCISE TONIGHT! THERE WILL BE NO HOT WEAPONS FIRE UNLESS A WARRANTED THREAT PRESENTS ITSELF! FURTHERMORE, THE HAPC, FAVs, AND TWO WRAITHS WILL BE THE ONLY LIVE ARMAMENT TONIGHT, SHOULD ANYTHING GO WRONG! IS THAT CLEAR!”
“YESSIR!” came the reply from forty-eight voices in unison, as red-taped clips were exchanged in rucksacks and along belts for blue-taped clips, full of blanks. As the men began switching out ammunition, Farrell appeared on the elevator, dressed in fatigues, and strode briskly to the men, gathered under the lights.
The men continued working, and Lozupone began her brief, talking loudly, so every man and women in the “Jack Knifes” could hear what their mission was for the evening.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight’s run is a simulation of our mission should we have arrived on Mau Sara. From this moment forth, treat this simulation as if it were live combat. When you are ‘killed by the Zerg’ – when your CMC flashes red and your vitals drop on the HAPC’s screen, you are to immediately return to the drop point.
“Current Intel has indicated a large presence of Zerg surrounding the planetary defense hive cluster. Orbital bombardment has reduced a significant portion of the defenses, however, it is imperative to remove the hive and as many surrounding emplacements before returning to the drop zone. Resistance is expected to be fierce. Since our arrival, we have presumed that Zerg ground forces have been increased dramatically, in pre-response to the coming invasion.
“The use of one tactical nuclear warhead has been permitted. It will be deployed as close as possible to the hive, at which point we turn heels and return to the extraction point ASAP. The Ospreys will be waiting for us.
“We will have no air support. The wings have been decimated fighting the devourers, mutalisks, and scourges in the upper atmosphere. Should any form of air resistance appear, we have outfitted FAV-13s with missile racks. Each FAV holds twelve Raptor Surface-To-Air missiles that are self-guided. Air threats will be dealt with.” Lozupone stepped back, and stood at rest as Ramirez stepped forward to give his pep talk to the Jack Knifes, prior to their first deployment in over twenty months.
“LISTEN UP! I know it’s been awhile since we’ve been in combat, and this is a harsh mission to be slapped with. However, Confederate High Command has handed this one down. Let’s show them that the 238th can still do the impossible.”
“YESSIR!” came the jubilant shout from the Jack Knifes.
“Good. Board your transports. We’ll be cramped, but we’re not doing atmospheric entry, so we’ll be okay. Good hunting. I’ll meet you on the field.”
Goggles were slammed down over faces, and weapons were grabbed as they broke formation and ran to the nearest Dropships. The FAVs engines roared to life, kicking over and starting up. Marines jumped up on the sides, grabbing hand and foot holds, as the FAVs sped onboard the Ospreys, three per cargo hold. Ramirez and Lozupone joined their men, with each sprinting to a different Dropship.
The HAPC was loaded with O’neill, Harris, and Freeman, who entered through the back and began playing with the various scanners and sensors, bringing them online. The HAPCs’ engines ignited, and the large hovervents along the underside blasted the now-empty blacktop with hot air from the turbines.
“This is Farrell. We are ready to deploy. Over and out.”
“Copy that.” Hawkers and Akesen spoke, almost in unison, as they finished pre-flight inspections and relays, from their respective cockpits in the two Dropships.
Across the landing pad, the sounds of engines igniting and orders being shouted as ramps raised added to the adrenaline already pounding through the system of every single man and woman present. Ground crew lighted up their batons and began instructing the Dropships and HAPC as to present lift-off time. At the western edge of the tarmac, one hundred meters away, two CF/A-17 Wraiths raised up above the edge of the tarmac, landing thrusters shooting tongues of flame out into the night air.
“Osprey 1, you have clearance to lift-off. Follow escort and proceed to drop zone. Hard deck until the simulations end is ten thousand meters. Do you copy?”
“Copy that. Osprey 1 out,” said Hawkers into her headset. She turned to Culmers, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. “Let’s go.”
Hawkers slowly increased the throttle, as Culmers continued to fire the landing thrusters, as the Dropship gained altitude. Akesen, in Osprey 2, followed suit, as the Dropships lifted off the ferrocrete surface and turned eastward, where the HAPC’s lights had already begun to dim as it disappeared into the now pitch black sky.
Together, Hawkers and Akesen slammed the throttles forward, as the Dropships rotated and lifted off, streaking into the black, catching up with the HAPC. Cassidy and Greauher, dropped in above the formation, weaving back and forth. Presently, they activated the Wraith’s cloaking system, and they two fighters disappeared from view.
As the detachment raced forward, into the stifling darkness on Danthor IX, the Jack Knifes silently said their prayers to whatever god existed for them, asking for success in the battle to come.
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