"Dammit Jaeska, I said connect the red wire to connection point four, not five!"
Pilot Kyle Willis cursed the tech assigned to maintain his old Transit fighter. Except for the single fighter, the repair hangar was empty. The world of Tomans was above average as far as usual temperature was concerned and much of the soil was somewhat sandy. Thus aerospace fighters and other fighting gear required more maintenance than on other planets. A cynical grin played over the edges of his face as he said to himself, "Only two things are certain on this planet: death and maintenance." The tech said nothing and kept working on the nose-mounted lasers.
Lasers, as a general rule, were extremely sensitive about damage to their lenses, so a laser-armed machine on a desert world required constant checking of the focusing lenses. The single door of the bay was usually closed to keep the sand out, so Willis stood near a large central cooling fan, which sputtered and died. He kicked the balky machine and said, "Figures."
The tech pulled himself out of the cramped, hot interior of the fighter, wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, "The lasers are good to go, but some of the cooling circuits still need work, and on this planet it means something."
Willis said, "Keep going then. You might get lucky and find something that works already."
Willis' Transit was perpetually under repair for one reason or another, everything from a broken axle to a shattered compass. His unit, 2nd Squadron of 1st Wing of the Seventeenth Skye Rangers, had been based on this hellhole for political reasons following the Skye Rebellion. First the unit had been skeletonized, then refilled as a dumping ground for misfits and greenies. Willis had fought with some distinction against the mercenary units on Glengarry, and someone upstairs had taken notice. He and his problematic craft had been transferred to the Seventeenth after that, then sent to garrison a planet one jump from the Clan front.
Like in most misfit groups everywhere across the Inner Sphere, word got around of the fate of similar-condition units. Somebody had compared him and his fighter to a Leutnant Herman from the Eighteenth Lyran, and Willis had said, "So long as I survive, you could compare me to a desert cricket."
There was one phone in the huge bay, and its high-pitched, piercing tone echoed through the hangar. Jaeska-the tech-had his upper body inside the fuselage of the Transit fighter, so Willis strolled nonchalantly across the open floor. Small gouges marred the floor, testimony to dropped tools or battle damage. He picked up the handset, cutting off the tone, and it took a few seconds before the other line actually connected to the link. In the space of those few seconds, Jaeska shouted, "Thank you!"
Rolling his eyes, the pilot said, "Pilot Willis here, who am I speaking to?"
"Kommandant Janice O'Brien. Pilot, we have been tapped to go on a mission, and we are vectoring a shuttle to your location. Be ready to move in under ten minutes."
"Got it ma'am," he said, and hung up the phone, then grumbled, "Ten minutes....usually they have the courtesy of giving me fifteen. Jaeska! Ten minutes until our ride gets here!" There was a muttered response, but the pilot did not catch it and did not care.
Walking to one of the plastiglass windows, he spied the dot of a Mark VII shuttle making its way towards the base. Naturally, there were no friendly fighters or VTOLs making flybys or escorting the ship. The shuttle landed completely unconfronted, and a large military towing hovertruck glided out of the cargo bay. Slowing to a stop inside the hangar, two men wearing techs' uniforms jumped out, followed by Hauptmann Grady. "Willis! What happened to your uniform?"
"If I had one, I would tell you."
"Anyway, our wing got tapped for a mission. We are going to escort a raider unit to Quarrell and hit the Jade Falcons there."
"Great. I'm not sure if my life insurance is paid up."
"Check quick. Kommandant Williams is in charge of this one, and if we know him, we can count on at least one suicidal charge."
After unloading the fighter, truck, tech, officer and pilot, the shuttle lifted off again. The truck had not disconnected its linking lines, so it towed the fighter out of the shuttle and up the creaking ramp of a Leopard CV sitting on the tarmac. Just after the pilot entered the ship, a large desert rat scampered down the ramp, followed by about twenty more. "Rats fleeing a ship. Gee, what a great omen to start with."
A number of ships in the Inner Sphere had rats of some type, though it seemed that the only type of ship with a major problem were JumpShips. Many species were benign, living on whatever scraps of food they could salvage, though one had been known to chew on power cables. That had been the reason why a system-reconnaissance ship had been captured by the Steel Vipers in 3057 when it was unable to muster enough energy to jump out again.
"So tell me again why they never fixed the latrines on Deck 6?" Willis asked his commander.
"Dammit, I'm a pilot, not an engineer!"
"They could have at least had the decency to warn us that the galley microwave cooker doesn't like potatoes," Willis said.
His wingmate, also someone without a very high outlook on life, said, "The premise is that you are going to poke a hole in it first. Cooking 101."
"Shut up."
"Is that an order or personal advice?"
"Look, since we have to act like a team on this mission, let's at least try to do something coordinated," the flight commander said.
"Sure, we'll coordinate sleep shifts."
"Just shut up and listen to me."
All in all, it was a miracle that the unit had made it this far and still remain (theoretically) a fighting force, since cohesion was nonexistant, the lances and companies haphazardly tossed together. Of the two regiments making up the strike force, only the infantry force showed any kind of command structure, which made sense since poorly coordinated 'Mech units rarely cost as much in lives as a poorly coordinated infantry unit.
Willis yawned, then asked, "So when do we launch?"
"As soon as we get within a few hours' burn of the planet, barring any other resistance," the flight commander said. The hauptmann presiding over the "meeting" said, "How many fighters do we have that are actually capable of flying and firing?"
"Technically, twelve. How well they fly is a different story. Eidermann is down with erratic engine cooling systems, Tsider has problems with his computers, and King has extensive corrosion along most of the wires in his fighter."
Willis asked, "So how far away are we now?"
"About two days, so keep the techs working on your fighters."
A blue light began to flash on and off as a console on the bridge read "Two incoming enemy DropShips, Union-C Class." Computer consoles began painting up different solutions, diagrams and possible outcomes when the officer on the bridge said, "Scramble fighters, prepare for intercept."
Fighters and techs moved quickly through the narrow corridors, sprinting to their fighters and spooling the engines. Techs sealed cockpit canopies and locked extra layers of metal into place over the fuel tank connections. Armored doors opened and catapults blasted the fighters into space as two combat DropShips, an Intruder and an Avenger, both glided to the fore to intercept the Clan vessels. Kyle and his squadron had been detailed to provide rear-area safety for the Avenger, but the assault ship was much faster than most of the fighters in his squadron. Kirkins and Lokawa had managed to keep up with the Avenger, as their Tomahawks were just as fast the ship.
As their sensors painted enemy DropShips targeting the two Inner Sphere assault vessels, the forward lance rejoined the rest of his squadron when the ship overthrusted to engage. Not willing to risk their somewhat creaky aerospace fighters to 6 Gs of force, the two ships fell back on their comrades. A pilot whose name Kyle could not recall said, "So what did you two hotshots see up there?"
Kirkins said, "Ain't much to see. The Clanners just sent up two D-ships and ours are taking care of them. I did see Edison's Lightning, or what was left of it, when I was followin' the DropShip. They blew it to pieces."
In the inflated silence following the news, the pilots simply flew onward, seemingly not caring about the loss of their comrade. Kyle knew that the survivors would hold a proper memorial ceremony when they returned to their ship. The Transit's comm system crackled to life: "Green Squadron: Union-C number one approaching your position, prepare for intercept."
"Green Squadron, respond."
"We read you sir, all nine of us."
"Nine? You were not in combat yet, explain the lack of three pilots."
"Sir, please bear in mind that this is Green Squadron, First Wing of the Seventeenth Skye Rangers. Enough said."
"Ah, I remember. Carry on, and good luck." There was not a lot of confidence in the voice on the other end of the line.
The communicators clicked again, then Hauptmann Grady said, "Red Flight, on me. Blue Flight, cover our butts."
There was a chorus of flat "Yes sirs," and the six fighters of Red Flight took the fore, leaving Kyle, his wingman Mel "Frosty" Snow and one other pilot, a Sally "Bandit" Villa. The three-fighter unit, comprised of a Transit, Riever and Shilone, had to cover a unit twice their size and such a task was not easy. What wound up happening was each pilot had been allocated to one lance, so the formations looked something like three Vs right next to each other. The large, red ball representing the Clan DropShip on the targeting computers loomed closer, then a red light began flashing and a voice, probably Kirkins', screamed, "INCOMING!!!!"
It took all of three seconds for the squadron to break down and attack the DropShip piecemeal. The crazy-quilt attack actually seemed to work on the first run, two Stingrays making a bruising attack against the ship's nose. Kyle watched as the second pair, a Sparrowhawk and the Hauptmann's Corsair, began diving towards the DropShip to attack. As he saw ship start to turn and roll, he shouted, "Cricket, Redbeard, abort! The enemy ship is turning to face you!"
The icon representing the Sparrowhawk immediately broke off and sheared away, chased by a barrage of long-range missiles from the Union-C's nose. The Corsair dove right at the nose of the DropShip, firing its lasers madly. Armor melted and cracked where the lasers dug into it, but the Clan DropShip absorbed the punishment and hit back. Kyle watched in horror as a massive power surge rushed to the Clanner's nose bays, then was sent out in the form of a hail of energy darts. The Corsair shook, obviously taking heavy damage. Grady threw the craft into a steep climb to try and escape, but the Clanner's fore-mounted weapons lay ready for it. Kyle and his two wingmates pushed their throttles to the safe limit attempting to get in close enough to distract the Clanner, but they were too late.
Stuttering pulse laser fire tracked into the starboard wing's armor, pitting and searing it. The craft had taken just about all it could as a large laser beam scored it down the middle. The craft's fuselage armor cracked and split, leaving its inner components vulnerable to the twin Gauss slugs that followed. The first impaled the Corsair, giving it a massive shove upwards, then the second slammed into the reeling ship's aft area, ripping into its fuel tank and engine. The hauptmann ejected just in time as a chain reaction ripped the fighter apart.
The remaining eight fighters continued to swirl around the Clan DropShip, dealing hits to almost every portion of the vessel. During the chaotic fight, Richard "Axehead" Kirkins died when his Tomahawk exploded under the lashing of pulse laser fire. "Cricket" Mantis' Sparrowhawk dove under the explosion of Kirkins' fighter and sent laser streams searing into the Clanner's side. There was a secondary explosion, and Kyle's targeting computer began painting a breach of the DropShip's armor. He called, "Frosty! Bandit! Hit that bastard on his left side, and hit him hard!"
"On the way!"
Snow's Shilone and Villa's Riever sent a hail of missiles at the Clan ship's side, ripping further into its interior. The targeting computer then created a two-dimensional schematic of the Clan vessel, painting red spikes where it estimated damage had been done. He glanced at the image once, then went into a wingover and dove at the DropShip.
His autocannon and lasers spat fire at the DropShip looming in his targeting sight, then he pulled up sharply as a Gauss slug whizzed through where his fighter had been seconds earlier. A second slug caught the ship in its tail, nearly spinning it end-over-end. Willis instead cut the engines and made a graceful loop-the-loop and joined his wingmate on another attack run. The larger Shilone released a volley of missile and laser fire, spearing the Union-C even further. Pulling out of the dive, Snow put his fighter into nearly a straight climb, evading the lasers seeking his craft.
Willis was grateful that the Clansmen were preoccupied, as his fighter would be hard to miss at this range. A large, sickly red, blotch obscured much of the Clan ship's side, leaving its innards extremely vulnerable. Kyle thumbed the triggers, sending a burst of autocannon fire and laser beams into the guts of the DropShip, leaving destruction in their wake. A secondary explosion came from an ammunition magazine as it ruptured, though the damage looked worse than it was.
Kyle was not out of the frying pan yet, so to speak, as a laser burst caught his already-damaged tail, scarring his remaining armor there. Slamming the ship into an ancient manuever known as the Immelman turn, Kyle winced as his damage schematic painted heavy damage to the ship's tail. He hoped that somebody was distracting the Clanner, but when he looked at the tactical screen, it showed only three other friendly fighters remaining; his wingman, Villa's Riever and Mantis' Sparrowhawk.
The DropShip, seemingly intent on killing him, sent a volley of missiles at his fighter, though only a few caught it in the port wing. He shouted, "I could use some DropShip support over here!"
The communicator crackled and said, "Already on it Scorpion, just keep cool."
A disk-shaped green icon appeared in his targeting screen, obscuring the red icon of the Union-C. There was a flash on his targeting display, then the red DropShip began graying out as it died. "Frosty, what's going on?"
"Our Avenger just gutted the Clanner. Come on home," his wingman said, noticably relieved.
Kyle set his ship on autopilot, a risk in itself, programming it to enter the Leopard CV's second fighter bay, then went back to his computer screens. Out of nine fighters that set out, only four were coming back. The hauptmann had punched out, Lokawa's ship had been crippled and rendered immobile under its own power, but the pilot was still alive, though crippled. The other three Lyran pilots had died in their fighters, and Green Squadron as a whole was horribly battered, down to nearly half-strength. He was relieved as the autopilot, which by some miracle actually worked, set his fighter down gently in the DropShip's receiving bay. Jaeska and Snow's tech were standing against the far wall wearing full space suits, ready with tools and parts. As the armor doors ratcheted closed and sealed, the pilots opened their cockpit canopies, hopping out and landing on the deck with a CLANG.
Kyle walked to the rear of his fighter, where his tech was standing and shaking his helmeted head. The technician said, "I hope I can repair this by the time we reach orbit."
"So do I."
The tech started pulling out a damaged armor plate when the ship's captain walked into the fighter bay. "Pilot Kyle Willis?"
The pilot turned and said, "Yeah?"
"Kommandant O'Brien wants to talk to you. You got eight minutes to get to the communications center."
"On my way," Kyle called. "Great, probably demotion to floor mopper," he muttered, shuffling to the comm center.
Seven minutes and 36 seconds later, he stood in the communications center. "Message: Kyle Willis," a communication console said. Flopping into a seat, which protested his weight with a shriek of taxed metal, he pressed the "Receive" button. A holographic picture of the Kommandant appeared, and said, "Welcome back, Kyle. I saw the reports of what you did during the battle."
"So much for flight duty," Kyle grumbled. The communicator could not hear him, but he did not care.
"I also think you did a spectacular job saving Cricket and his ship."
"What?"
"Therefore I am giving you a field promotion to flight leader, until we reach orbit, where I can give you the formal procedures. You will have flight command of Blue Flight, Green Squadron, First Wing. Congratulations, Flight Leader."
"Holy (^*$," he said.
"They did what?"
"They promoted me to flight leader."
"Am I hearing things?"
"Not that I know of," Kyle was still not sure either.
"What command?"
"Blue Flight, Green Squadron, First Wing."
"So what does that mean?"
"It means that right now I command all of three operational fighters, unless they shuffle some people around."
"Yeah, they shuffle the two of us upstairs to be official wing 'go-fers'."
Kyle was still in shock over the sudden promotion, and the sarcastic sniping from his best friend and wingmate did not matter to him very much. Snow looked at him, then asked, "So what do you do first, flight leader?"
"I guess the first thing I do is find out who my flight is and how to keep them all alive next time."
"Fat chance. King is a drunk, Eidermann barely speaks our language; Tsider is a great pilot, but he always gets in trouble because of his cynicism."
"What do they pilot?"
"Technically they pilot aerospace fighters."
"Not funny."
"Lessee, a Centurion with a lot of corrosion, a Gotha with a neurotic engine cooling system and a refitted Lucifer refit with a computer that is having trouble adapting to the new hardware."
"Get them into our fighter bay so we can talk."
"If I can find them," Snow mumbled, walking away.
It took about ten minutes before any of them showed up; Tsider walked in carrying a sniper rifle and cleaning rag. He asked, "Are you the new flight leader?"
"Welcome to Hell, pal."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you are the low man on the officers' totem pole, you get called whenever the higher-ups need somebody to fetch a stick, and you can expect to get the least voice in officers' meetings."
Kyle grimaced. "I can see why you are still a low-level pilot."
"I am saving my political capital to make the jump right to squadron command and skip all the low-level trouble."
"Why are you carrying that rifle?"
"Why not?"
"It might scare the officers."
"Their problem, not mine. And nobody has complained yet."
"Have you seen King?"
"Which one?"
"The pilot, dammit."
"I saw him."
"Where was he?"
"Passed out on the galley floor with a bottle of Glengarry malt in his hand."
"Eidermann?"
"I saw him, but I do not think he understood me. The guy speaks German and a little English. Was another language required course at your university?"
"No."
"This is just dandy. I always seem to get stuck with a wingman nobody else understands. Come to think of it I guess that is what the other guys think," he paused, wiping the rag on the stock of his rifle.
Eidermann walked in, and asked, "What going on?"
"Planning session."
"Vas?"
"Hey Tsider!"
"What?"
"I got a job for you."
"Shooting officers is low on my list of ideas now."
"You idiot, go find a translator."
"You da boss," he said, then strolled off, rifle over his shoulder. "Fat lot of good it is going to do," he said as he walked off.
Snow walked in, or, more appropriately, staggered in, dragging a semi-concious King behind him. "Sure took you long enough," Kyle said.
"Screw you. He weighs around 120 kilos already, and I had to drag him through the corridors of this ship. Not fun."
King attempted to sit up, but started rolling away down the inclined floor of the bay. Kyle hit himself in the head with the palm of his hand, then ran off chasing the fat roller.
Tsider chose that moment to reappear, a small woman following him. "Hey, flight leader!"
A faint call of "What?" sounded from the far side of the bay.
"I found a translator."
"Talk to Eidermann, I have to get King out from behind this crate."
The woman began speaking rapidly in German to Eidermann, who replied in German, and the translator said to Tsider. "He says that his fighter is almost fixed, but will need some testing before he can fly in atmosphere."
"Great. Tell him to get simulator testing before trying anything."
After Kyle succeeded in rolling King up to the conference table, Eidermann and Snow wedged several large crates behind him to keep him from moving away, then said, "I suppose you all are wondering why we are here."
"Yeah, what kind of entertainment are we counting on at the party later?"
"Shut up Tsider," Villa said.
"We are here to discuss tactics and how they pertain to our upcoming mission."
Tsider muttered, "Of course, that would require us having enough units to use tactics of any kind."
And so it went, Willis outlining various topics, Tsider mumbling commentary under his breath, Eidermann's translator constantly chattering in German.
"Any questions?"
"Can we do once more from the top?"
"Tsider..."
"Just kidding."
"Anyway, all of you, hit the sack for as long as you can, we should reach orbit in about twenty-four hours."
Kyle walked through a grassy plain, snow-capped mountains visible in the cloud-shrouded distance. A light breeze whipped the air, casting leaves about the air and settling them to the ground. His peace was interrupted by a roar that echoed from the mountains and shook the plain. Diving to the ground, grass tickled his chin as he looked up. A silver speck reflected the sunlight, growing and dividing in two. He watched as a single black dot fell from the silver dart, looming larger and larger, until a sharp crack sounded over him. There were dozens of small explosions as the cluster bomb burst, casting small submunitions over a huge area. One bomblet landed directly in front of his face, then there was a crack, the whiff of explosive fumes, and his vision blanked out.
He sat up in his bunk, a thin film of sweat covering his body. Throwing off the blanket, he said, "Lights." Far from the sophistication enjoyed by WarShips, JumpShips, or even some DropShips, the old vessel's voice-recognition system had only two settings: off, and high. Squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden glare of fluorescent light, he said, "Son of a..."
The computer said, "Unrecognized command. Speak clearly."
He had forgotten that the ship was so old that its computers would react to anything said in one of the rooms. A red light flickered on and off on a small console on his desk; the "voice-deactivate" system. He walked over to the computer console, then the ship bucked and he hit the coffeepot instead. "Dammit!"
"Unrecognized command. Speak clearly."
Grabbing the edge of the cold metal desk, he pushed the "voice-deactivate". There was a tap-tap-tap on the door, and he walked over to the door, punching a button that opened a tiny peephole in the door. "Who is calling?"
"Joe's crematorium, you kill 'em we grill 'em," Snow said.
"What the hell do you want? I only managed to get five hours of sleep."
"Kommandant wanted a final briefing before we reach orbit."
"Tell him we are at half-strength so I need twice as much sleep."
Sarcastically, Snow said, "That ought to do a lot of good."
"You got a better idea? In fact, just go to sleep in your room, and he should forget all about us. He never liked us anyway."
Snow looked to be considering the idea, through the small peephole in the door. When he walked away humming something to himself, Kyle thought he had taken his half-sleeping rant as advice. Staggering back to the console, he stabbed at the voice-control system, bringing it back after four tries, said, "Lights off," climbed back into his bunk and closed his eyes.
To be continued.....