13 October, Terran Year 3.2220.

05:00 Cybian Standard Time

Somewhere over the New Morrabian Peninsula…

 

It was only three days after his deployment officially began that Corporal Davriel Angelus found himself deep in consternation aboard a United Terran Federation Marine Corps transport aircraft bound for the New Morrabian Peninsula. He’d momentarily removed his head set before running his coarse hands through his short cropped dark brown hair that was bordering on too long for Marine Corps regulations then stroked his chin in thought feeling the day-old stubble that was already growing on his square jaw line. Careening his neck back he stared up with his almond brown eyes at the ceiling of the transport and steadily exhaled a sigh. The unrelenting vibrations throughout the VTOL (Vertical Take Off and Landing) class airship known as a Skyhawk, had lulled his vexed mind away from the chatter of the other soldiers aboard to a commonly recurring memory from nearly a year before. His mind was lost in thought as he contemplated the memory of his last night at home with one of his three brothers.

 

     The images from that night came swirling back to him instantly. He pictured the flickering flames in the fire-pit at his mother’s house and remembered the crackle of the embers met with the soothing sway of the trees blowing with the winter winds. He then pictured his brother Savos. He remembered him fully in the tattered jeans and winter all-proof coat he wore and the vibrant smiley face baseball cap he frequently wore, using it to cover the hole in the knee of his jeans rather than top his head, though he knew his brother’s thick bushy hair kept his head plenty warm. Despite the low light of the fire he could vividly make out Savos’ face, his olive skin tone, his hazel blue eyes, the wispy tuft of hair underneath his lower lip. Every detail flooded back to him and felt tangible. His taste-buds then began recalling the flat rummies he and his brother drank as well as the hand rolled cigs Savos was so fond of rolling for them. There was a brief lapse in the memory as he recalled he wouldn’t be allowed such simple pleasures as drinks and smokes on his ten month deployment, but he resumed reminiscing before losing all focus.

Returning to the dying embers, the flat drinks, and the lit cigs led him back to the vexation he currently faced. The main cause for his melancholy was Savos’ only words spoken regarding his current deployment. The words echoed in his mind as he mouthed them to the ceiling, “Be safe, be strong, and be smart. Come back to us, we still have a great many things to do.” At the time he’d responded as he normally did with their usual ‘no promises’ retort, brushing it off to not have it be such a big deal. But now he was here. It was a big deal. It was real.

     

     He thought again about Savos’ words, the first part of which were extraneous as they were implied by the situation of his military deployment and he fancied himself all of those things regardless. The perplexity came with the second part of what Savos said, “We still have a great many things to do.” Corporal Angelus thought about these words numerous times since he began his transcontinental trip to his current location—8000 meters in the air over the jungle peninsula of New Morrabia—but now more than ever he pondered their meaning with great significance and considered what “great things” he still needed to do.

     

     For a moment Corporal Angelus returned to the surroundings of the cargo hold to find Corporal Dionte Trane staring at him. Corporal Trane was a fellow aircraft mechanic and had known Angelus since boot camp. For the past two years they’d been in the same detachment and he was the closest thing Angelus had to family. Trane was by far the tallest and largest man aboard the transport. He had dark skin and a soft, wide face—frequently plastered with a grin—and he was usually eating, talking, or laughing, though he was doing none of these at the moment as he curiously stared at Angelus. As Angelus looked at him, Trane returned the look and mouthed, ‘You okay?’ to which Angelus simply nodded his head before closing his eyes and returning to his thoughts.

     

     His contemplation was immediately quelled as he felt a sudden and violent lurch throughout the Skyhawk. Suddenly sirens were blaring and the compartment erupted in chatter. Corporal Angelus immediately donned his headset to find out what caused the commotion. As soon as his headset was on the pilot’s voice broke over the Tactical Communication Network (tac-com), “Brace yourselves, we’ve got incoming high velocity contacts! Strap yourselves in, it’s about to get bumpy!”

     

     The UTF Mk 44 Skyhawk was remarkable in stature; it resembled a great bird with its wings permanently swept for a dive bomb. It boasted four remarkably engineered mobile turbofan engines that supported the transport’s chassis with over 80000 lbs. of thrust with an additional 60000 lbs. from primary rear-firing engines. With its unique abilities came an unrelenting need for an abundance of repairs and service calls. Corporal Angelus knew all about these repairs and procedures as he had been sent to carry out those mundane duties as an aircraft mechanic.  The recurring inspection of fuses and electronic systems, coupled with the constant scrutiny on the Skyhawk’s four turbofan engines as well as its main thrusters, in addition to the framework and body detailing; all served up an ever expanding list of new ways to fix the Skyhawk. The endless list he’d compiled raced through his mind as he hoped that this specific transport was at full operational capacity. The Skyhawk was not an exceptionally agile craft due to its size and functionality, but due to its practical points as a VTOL aircraft, it was invaluable to the UTF. Thankfully, the pilot was uncannily familiar with its limited maneuverability and began executing its few evasive maneuvers.  Corporal Angelus felt the transport suddenly incline to its right for a rising-bank maneuver as the pilot began what little evasive action was possible. He thought of what HVCs might be in their pursuit and then wondered as to what the pilot might do to further avoid or engage such targets.

 

 

In the cockpit of the Skyhawk sat the pilot, Lieutenant-Commander Ramos Marco Elnezzi, affectionately known by his brothers in arms as ‘R-ME or Army.’ He was handsome in looks, tall for a pilot and almost elegant. He had a strong nose, jet black hair, green eyes—a rarity for men from the Eurkasyian country Frensia—and had leather brown skin from spending too much time in the sun. He was a fun-loving guy and cared deeply for those around him. Along with Elnezzi sat his relatively new flight officer and co-pilot Lieutenant Rahvan Delantos. Delantos was on the shorter side and rather mundane in looks. He was far too serious and always feared the worst regardless of the situation. He was one of three other crew members with Elnezzi on the Skyhawk and one for whom Elnezzi was ultimately responsible, despite hardly knowing him. The other two members were not present but on station at their respective gun-turrets on either flank of the aircraft. Although Elnezzi trusted and liked his current flight officer Delantos, he couldn’t help but trust to his flanking gunners and his own prowess now in order to save his crew, passengers, and cargo.

 

     With hands stiffening, gut wrenching, and palms sweating, he drew his eyes onto his radar to get a bearing on his assailants. Delantos’ voice suddenly burst over the tac-com, “Looks like two Viper Class G-8s, these Gunrunners are real mean sons-of-bitches!”

 

     Before fear overtook Elnezzi his instincts urged him forward and he immediately grabbed the control sticks and began a series of evasive maneuvers initiated by a high-rising right bank. He knew he had to gain altitude to provide his turret-gunners a decent shot. The two Gunrunners followed suit and without warning opened up with machine gun fire on the bulky transport.

 

     The Viper G-8 “Gunrunner” was a clumsy looking aircraft but packed a wallop when it came to firepower. Designed as a cheap, viable, air-to-air dog-fighter the G-8s packed eight 30mm Hellfire machine cannons on a crudely shaped wing platform, built around a 75mm crack-shot cannon comprising the main fuselage of the craft.  With the blistering amount of firepower the G-8s packed, it was amazing that they could even fly. This did however lead to its unfortunate drawbacks of being less maneuverable than the UTF’s smaller and more versatile Macdonus FA-2s, and the Gunrunner’s lack of missiles added to its ineffectiveness in dogfights. Never-the-less the G-8s were excellent for anti-infantry strafing runs and pursuing slower bulkier ships such as transports carrying troops or supplies—much like the Skyhawk carrying Angelus, Elnezzi, Delantos and the others. 

 

     Elnezzi quickly recalled the specs of the G-8s and immediately realized that just two of these Gunrunners could tear his lone Skyhawk to pieces in a matter of minutes.  He quickly gathered his nerves and shouted to his turret gunners, “Priority targets: two hostile fast moving Gunrunners! Take ’em out!”

 

     “Roger that Lieutenant!” confirmed one of his Gunners, Ensign Deon Leheura. Leheura was from the Old Sipian Empire in the far east of Eurkasyia whose eager mentality was only ever matched by his toothy grin and his uncanny ability to crack a joke. He had been the most recent addition to the Skyhawk’s crew, and although he was colloquially known as the FNG, they all liked him well enough. Despite his amiable nature, his stature with the crew was now truly put to the test with their current predicament. Elnezzi didn’t really know him aside from the jokes, but certainly had to trust in his ability now.

 

     “Copy that, engaging.” said the other gunner, Ensign Jun Araffi. Araffi had been 2 classes behind Elnezzi at the UTF Eurkasyian Academy in Frensia and was later attached to the same battalion. He was black haired and brown skinned much like Elnezzi, and was probably Elnezzi’s favorite person in the whole battalion. Araffi often copied Elnezzi in manner and appearance, looking up to him like a younger brother to his older brother. Elnezzi had always known him as a competent and disciplined cadet, and now considered him a good friend and brother-in-arms, and his brief and calm response bolstered Elnezzi’s splintering nerves.

 

     The two flanking turret ports could be equipped with a number of weapons from manned-guns to auto grenade or missile launchers, but those required specific upgrades in engine output and hull strength that this Skyhawk variant did not have. Not flying in what was deemed as a hostile combat situation Elnezzi’s Skyhawk was merely equipped with the standard twin-linked bolt cannons—looking back Elnezzi wished he had been granted one of the Warhawk transports equipped with rockets or grenades, but that was wishful thinking that he could not afford in his current situation. The twin-linked bolt cannons mounted on the Skyhawk class transport fired explosive bolt rounds designed to penetrate a target and then detonate. They were designed to provide significant ground fire during a Hot Landing, while troops would disembark. The explosive bolts were designed to inflict maximum damage on unarmored to lightly armored ground targets but were remarkably useful against some thinner air armor as well. The turrets took aim on the encroaching Gunrunners and opened fire causing their pursuers to temporarily break off in evasive maneuvers of their own. 

 

 

Over the staggered staccato of machine gun fire Corporal Angelus and his fellow soldiers’ nerves tightened as they hoped for the best of their situation. Angelus was no hero, and had no real desire to be regarded as such, but always had such disdain for being unable to help or have control of his own fate. He could not help but feel intensely motivated to do something to assuage their situation. He and the other soldiers recoiled as the craft shuddered in its evasive actions and suffered from the unrelenting fire from the Gunrunners. Pock marks rattled the right flank as the lead G-8 scored several impacts. Hearing these impacts the soldiers in the cargo hold all hoped the craft’s armor was thick enough and that their pilot, Army Elnezzi, was fast enough.

 

     Elnezzi maneuvered his craft into a rolling move, now to its left, as he felt the splintering impacts rattle against his ship’s airframe. He quickly realized he needed support and immediately ordered his flight officer to radio command. “Patch us through to HQ!” he shouted.

 

     Delantos quickly keyed the controls and achieved an open channel to base. “This is Skyhawk transport Delta 4-5-1 requesting immediate back up! We are being engaged by two hostile G-8 Gunrunners and need immediate assistance! Over!”

 

     The link to command that Delantos opened was so hastily made that he failed to realize it was open and broadcasting over the Skyhawk’s Tactical Communication Network. As every UTF member aboard was linked to the tac-com, not only did HQ hear of the transport’s assailants, so too did its previously unknowing passengers.

 

     The new found discovery only served to further the anxiety and helplessness the passengers were already feeling. This particular troop load was already suffering from rather intense combat jitters as its load-out of four corpsmen, and a dozen auxiliary troops was not accustomed to such hostile conditions as their posts were generally non-combatant positions—with exception to the corpsmen. The noncoms comprising the auxiliary troops consisted of three airplane mechanics, four software engineers, two civil engineers and three communications officers; all of whom believed in the New World Coalition, seeking to aid in the unification of Earth as a transcontinental coalition through the United Terran Federation—or so it seemed.

 

     Despite the nearly unanimous feeling of helplessness, Corporal Angelus felt a compelling urgency to act. ‘What can I do?’ he thought to himself and wondered if he’d even get the chance to do anything at all or if he was to be helplessly gunned down out of the twilit sky. He was not at all expecting his chance when it was suddenly and garishly presented.

 

     Not a moment after Elnezzi radioed for assistance two inevitably tragic events occurred, as so often they do in battle. Initially, Command’s response came, “That’s a negative Delta. We do not have support units in your vicinity. Repeat: no friendlies in your immediate area.” Immediately following command’s response, the leading Gunrunner reengaged the Skyhawk, and pushed it into a banking maneuver that his wingman anticipated. The perfectly timed strafing attack that ensued brought a hail of bullets which tore straight through the left side of the Skyhawk’s hull, destroying the turret and ravaging Araffi’s body, killing him instantly.

 

     “Man down!” Delantos reported, still over the tac-com, “Repeat, man down! We’ve lost the left side turret!”

 

     Without delay Angelus realized his window to act, but remained perplexed on what exactly he could do. Following the sound of impacts on the hull and Delantos’ report on Araffi, he judged the strafing run had damaged the left side gun turret, rendering it useless; he often presumed the worst case scenario when regarding Skyhawks as it generally was worst case or near-worst case. He then wracked his mind on what he could possibly do at that moment as they had all just become more likely to lose this unraveling dog fight.

 

     As he was a fervent observer Angelus had paid every attention to detail—regarding things he deemed important, especially in extreme circumstances—and he quickly remembered the contents of the cargo on board this particular transport. Despite its load of noncoms the transport’s cargo was entirely intended for full field use. The load-out consisted of ten crates; the first was full of the UTF’s new Assault Carbine AC-7 a and b assault rifles equipped with under-mounted launchers, the second full of 4 X-99 Stingray missile launchers, the third full of munitions for said launchers, the fourth full of various grenades—both for the AC-7b launchers and various throw-able grenades—and the remaining six crates were all full of rations, medical supplies, and auxiliary construction tools and equipment. Angelus focused on the first crates for their lethality and current usefulness, but to his fortune did not completely disregard the other boxes from memory.

 

     His mind settled specifically on the contents of the third and fourth crates, as the launchers were going to be the only effective threat against their pursuers, ‘but how to use them…’ he thought. Without hesitation he unbuckled his seat’s safety harness and lunged forward toward the crates. Corporal Trane immediately saw Angelus’ movement and berated him shouting, “Jus’ what the hell you think you doin’?!”

The only response Angelus could summon was as transient as his own instant rationale to get up in the first place, “Something!” he shouted back.

 

     He opened the crate of X-99 launchers and immediately seized the first box. Unfastening the latches he opened the launcher’s box. He then unfastened the locks to the munitions box and removed several rounds for the launcher. Removing the first from its individual cartridge he loaded it into the launcher with remarkable ease. Even though they were noncoms, as soldiers of the UTF Marines they were required to have familiarity with basic UTF infantry weaponry, and Angelus’ qualification on the smaller X-66 Devilray launcher gave him the familiarity he deemed would be enough to operate this larger model. He then opened a third box from the other crate, and grabbed half a dozen flash and krak grenades, placing them in whatever open pouches his tactical vest offered.

 

     Stepping away from the crates he mounted the launcher to his shoulder and moved toward the aft hatch to open it and ultimately engage the Skyhawk’s pursuers. He then realized this would subject the entire passenger load and cargo to their pursuers, as well as provide a sufficient window for bullet fire to penetrate through to the cockpit. Facing this realization Angelus turned and approached the left turret access hatch, the side that had been destroyed. The other soldiers looked on, stupefied and bewildered as Angelus keyed in the entry code, opened the hatch, and stepped out of the main hold. The last thing they saw was him locking in his tactical vest to the operator harness as the hatch resealed.

 

 

 

Stepping into the gunner’s seat—or what was left of it—and strapping into the harness Angelus realized two things, the fierce biting wind from the wide open gashes in the gun-port’s armor and that the strafing run from the gunrunner had blasted Araffi’s body clean from the aircraft. He quickly gathered his wits and remembered the task at hand: saving the transport and the crew.

 

     He instantly began scanning the skies for the Skyhawk’s assailants. Looking toward the Skyhawk’s 8 o’clock high he saw one of the Gunrunners diving into an attack run. Looking toward his foes estimated flight path Angelus seized one of the flash grenades from his harness, and pulling the pin, let it fly back toward the approaching craft. He shielded his eyes just before the blinding white flash of light from the grenade’s detonation.

 

     The luminous flash lit up the twilit sky like a bolt of lightning for all to see, save for those sealed within the cargo hold. Even Elnezzi and Delantos sat baffled by the flash. “What the hell was that!?” cried Delantos.

 

     “What the hell is going on back there?” Elnezzi interjected.

 

     Before receiving a response a targeting siren blared as Delantos discovered a weapons lock had been made. Just then Elnezzi and Delantos witnessed the sky night flash yet again, this time with an orangey hue that flashed and faded from the transport’s back left.

 

     The flash grenade worked perfectly in disorienting the Gunrunner’s pilot as he blindly disengaged from his diving run. Without hesitation Angelus mounted the launcher, took aim, and as soon as he heard the target lock, fired at the approaching gunrunner. With a flash and a massive shock of recoil the X-99 Stingray fired off its computer guided missile. The missile streaked across the waning night sky and struck the attacking gunrunner in an intense flurry of fire and metal. Angelus could practically smell the burning wreckage as the blast wave rushed towards him confirming the destruction of the leading Gunrunner. Angelus immediately tapped into the transport’s open tac-com to report the kill. “Gunrunner One is down, try and get me another shot will ya?” he shouted over the cacophony of the situation.

 

     As Delantos checked their radar and noticed one less enemy, his unhindered enthusiasm burst over the tac-com, “Great job Angelus!”

 

     Elnezzi responded with a collected urgency, “Nice one Angelus, see what you can do about that other one before he does any more damage.”

 

     Upon the destruction of the leading Gunrunner the second G-8 pilot re-engaged the transport with increasing tenacity and not a moment after Elnezzi finished speaking, the G-8 unleashed a hail of machine gun fire. The rounds hit with deadly accuracy on the transports right vertical stabilizer and engine-mount, decimating its maneuvering capabilities. The transport reeled in a calamitous convulsion as yet more sirens blared throughout the cockpit and cargo hold. Smoke billowed from the damaged stabilizer and the craft began to drastically lose altitude.

 

     The enemy pilot was now out for revenge for his fallen wingman and pursued the crippled craft preparing the final killing blow to finish them off. He positioned himself directly behind the Skyhawk on an identical trajectory and steadied his Gunrunner to make use of the crack-shot cannon mounted on its hull. In preparing for this killing blow Angelus was able to read the pilot’s telegraphed move and warn Elnezzi, “INCOMING!” was all he had time to shout before the telltale *crack* from the Gunrunner’s main cannon rang out, hurling the 75 mm round straight toward the crippled Skyhawk. Despite hearing and reacting to Angelus’ warning, Elnezzi was not able to completely dodge the shot and felt his Skyhawk shudder as the crack-shot round impacted on its right wing-mount and it began to shatter and break up from the impact of the round and the ensuing exterior explosions.

 

     As the transport began to break up Angelus’ thoughts turned toward the crew and their survival. He thought perhaps they could all equip parachutes and jump to safety but then retracted that thought as he realized the remaining Gunrunner would shred them to bits with its machine gun fire before they would make it to the ground. He tried to establish a grip on the situation and radioed the pilot, “Army, what’s our status?” he yelled.

 

     “Completely fucked!” was Elnezzi’s concise response, “Stand by!” he added as Delantos retried radioing HQ.

 

     “Mayday, mayday,” Delantos rattled, “This is Skyhawk Delta 4-5-1. We are hit and losing altitude rapidly! Repeat, we are going down!”

 

     After brief static, HQ’s concise reply came, “Roger that Delta. Reinforcements are still unavailable.”

 

     “Don’t give me that shit!” Elnezzi cut in, “We seriously need some blasted back up! Or at least an S&R ship for the crew and cargo of this downed bird! We are going down!”

 

     “Rescue can be inbound in 35 minutes.” responded HQ.

 

     “We’ll be lucky if we last 35 more seconds!” Elnezzi quickly retorted, livid with Command’s inefficiency and the UTF’s general lack of urgency. Unknown to Elnezzi and Delantos, their conversation with Command was audible to everyone aboard—due to Delantos’ previous error with the tac-com—and panic was beginning to take hold of the passengers as their plight grew in intensity.

 

     As if feeding off the panic and despair of the Skyhawk’s crew the Gunrunner sprayed yet another hail of machine gun fire into the right side of the Skyhawk, piercing the already shattered and ruined armor and killing several of the passengers sealed in the cargo hold, as well as crippling the second turret. Suddenly Corporal Trane broke over the tac-com, “That shit tore right through the hull. Man, we dyin’ in here, get us the hell outta’ here!”

 

     Elnezzi now faced the dire reality that if they remained aboard the ship much longer the crew and all passengers would surely be killed in the remaining Gunrunner’s vengeful attack, his mind settled on the last possible option; abandoning the dying hulk and hoping that at least some of them would survive the drop to the earth. Coming to this conclusion he mustered up what little resolve he had left and shouted to those in the cargo hold, “All hands, chute up and get out! I’ll try and draw the bastard’s fire!”

 

     “Hold that!” Angelus interjected. Faced with the potential destruction of the transport, crew, and cargo, he did the most impulsive and rash thing he possibly could have. Reloading the Stingray launcher he unbuckled the operator’s harness, and broadcast to Elnezzi, Delantos, and the remaining passengers in the hold, his valediction. It came as concise and confident as any words he’d ever spoken, “Find a good place to set her down and get these men to safety Army. I’ll take care of this persistent son-of-a-bitch.” None of the men expected or even saw what came next as Angelus flung himself from the Skyhawk.

 

 

 

Knowing his time was inexorably limited now, he immediately seized a flash grenade, removed the pin and hurled it toward the Gunrunner still in pursuit. Again he shielded his eyes from the flash but was more susceptible to the grenade’s effect as it detonated in front of him this time. With a blur in his eyes and a deafening ring in his ears he mounted the launcher to his shoulder and took aim on the target. Unable to clearly see his target or listen for a target lock Angelus trusted his instincts and squeezed the trigger, shooting the guided missile toward the Gunrunner. Again he felt the immense recoil from the hefty launcher and as he had no firm ground on which to brace himself, he was sent spiraling out of control from the force of the missile launch.

 

     He was able to reorient himself toward the missile’s plume of smoke and the continuing craft just a moment before the missile impacted on the second Gunrunner, shattering it into thousands of small pieces in a flourish of fire and metal. Just beyond the exploding Gunrunner he could see the damaged Skyhawk safely escape its pursuer, though heavily smoking and losing altitude at an alarming rate. He watched it head for a crash landing beyond the wooded area of the river, east of their intended course and southeast of his relative position. The sight spurred him to realize his own imminent crash landing which now came at him at an alarming rate.

 

     With his impending doom quickly approaching, Corporal Davriel Angelus’ thoughts drifted away from the crashing Skyhawk, away from Elnezzi, Delantos, Trane and the others, away from the combat zone and the War for Unification, the New World Coalition, the UTF; he simply escaped the reality of his plight. His thoughts turned to the peacefully foreboding fire with Savos and he realized that saving those troopers was indeed a great thing, but unfortunately the great things of which Savos spoke that night by the fire, would have to be accomplished without him.

 

     As the sun began to rise over the New Morrabian Peninsula Davriel now looked toward his imminent demise. He saw a river running through a wooded area he decided he would aim for—he reckoned that any impact would be painful but at least crashing in the water would provide a quicker, less painful death than crashing through the trees. Upon looking at the river and the flowing water Davriel thought of his youngest brother Cephus, a bright and hardy naval officer patrolling the world’s waters aboard a UTF Naval Guard Cutter. Davriel pictured Cephus sailing on the fierce waters of Terra as he continued to fall toward the rush of the river. The charge of the biting wind passing his body shifted his thoughts to one of his other brothers, Jonos, a confident and brilliant pilot soaring through the skies with the wind in his eyes and the ground kilometers below his feet. As he looked toward the ground that seemed to grow exponentially larger by the millisecond his thoughts returned to Savos, his last brother, a determined and steadfast source of support and kinship. Every thought and memory of Davriel’s time with his brothers flashed before his eyes and he realized that he would miss them all the most out of everything he ever knew in the world. Finally, mere meters from the river’s surface his thoughts turned to that last night with Savos; the burning image of the dying fire light flickering into the night sky, the words Savos had said, and his own response, “No promises.” Before the end he pictured a fire blazing eternally, its own flames the source of its undying burning light. The heat rose in him and he let go, giving in to his fate. Then all went dark.