The smoking room was a six-by-six chamber about the size of an officer's quarters, with a large ventilation fan that hummed and a transparent glass exterior. Personally commissioned by the captain himself, there were about seven other smoking rooms in the ship, and the one in level 3A was for the personal use of the pilots of 187 Defender Squadron, headed by Lieutenant Karl Jensen, Alliance Navy. The pilots referred this room as 'the Pit' because of its small size.
There was only one man who sat in the room now, sucking on a Lucky Strike Original Red. His skin was a shade of olive, his eyebrows thick, and a beard was about his face. He was in a jumpsuit, colored OD Green, in which materials were made to resist fire and adaptable to non-atmospherical conditions.
A woman pressed the airlock sliding doors, also made out of glass. Dark hair and a smooth body, her jumpsuit hugging her sweet, toned, curves, she walked towards the sitting man. "You should stop smoking." She said.
"There's an interstellar war going on. You should care for something better than what I put in my mouth." He said, and chuckled.
"What if that's an order?"
"Orders don't go along with 'should', ensign. You should rephrase your words the next time you tell me to stop smoking." Said the man.
Like the woman, the man had silver wings with the head of an AFU pinned - more correctly struck - on the velcro space on his left chest. Unlike the woman, however, the man wore the olive drab of the Marines instead of the colorful tones the Navy had. Naval Defender Pilots wore maroon red, something the alluring ensign was wearing right now.
The Alliance Corps of Marines were a unit of its own since its inception, independent in all things except transport and chain of command, in which they were subordinate to the Navy. Among the individual units of the vast Marine Corps of the Alliance, was the Hrasvleg Corps of Royal Marines, coming from the prosperous Space-kingdom of Hrasvleg, lightyears away from where Technical Sergeant Ryck Norican, HRCM, now sat and smoked, his back to the wall, and his eyes fixed on the fine curves of Ensign Sophie Deschamps.
Deschamps sat next to the technical sergeant, perhaps a bit too close, as their thighs pressed against each other's. She took his pack of Luckies from the metal table in front of them. She pulled one out and lit it with her own lighter.
"Ah." He said. "Taking mine, now?"
"PX is running short on Luckies."
"It's the last pack I got, so be picky when you need one."
"Should say the same about you, sergeant."
Norican held a low laugh. "Hmm."
Sophie then went closer, tightened up the space between herself and the sergeant. She wrapped her hands around him and put her head on his shoulders.
"Any of the officers see you doing this, and you're screwed."
"Any of the officers speak a word, I screw them."
"Cunt."
Sophie grinned.
Then the loudspeaker opened up.
"All men to battlestations, I say again, all men to battlestations. This is not a drill." The posh tone of the ship's second-in-command, Lieutenant-Commander Arthur W. Harris came into the room. "I say again, all men to battlestations, all men to battlestations, this is not a drill."
The alarms then rung, and the sirens turned the corridors red. Men and women rushed left and right, carrying helmets and guns and whatnot.
"And I haven't even finished my damned coffee." Norican said. He took the cup and took a long chug. "Arseholes, the lot of them."
***
The AFUs were ten meters tall, with an adjusted 1G weight of about thirty metric tons and forty-five at the heaviest gear. The mainstay AFU/Defender unit was the AF-24 'Dagger', which hung on the ceiling of the zero-gravity hangar. They were visible from the glass window of the briefing room, where four of the six pilots sat and listened to the quick briefing.
Lieutenant Jensen stood, explaining to the other pilots by pointing on the digital map on the screen. "We've spotted two unknown vessels to our astronomical northwest. Today's sortie is simple. We check out who the hell these people are, and if they're some damn Earthers we'll take care of them with anti-ship guns. Now where is Ensign Deschamps and Sergeant Norican?"
Just as their names were mentioned, the two entered the small, soundproof briefing room.
"You're late." Said the bespectacled commander. Jensen was no more charismatic than a near-middle aged schoolteacher. He had a mustache, which made him look more like a schoolteacher than anything else.
"Sorry, sir." Sophie said, trying to charm her way out of trouble, as she usually did. "Wouldn't waste a good cigarette."
"Which cigarette are we talkin' 'bout here, Deschamps?" Asked Ensign Floyd Meyer, a blond, slick-haired young pilot.
The room burst in laughter.
Jensen cut the laughs out. "Nobody ain't screwin' nobody here, Ensign Meyer. And you got a lot to learn from Technical Sergeant Norican. He's a thousand times better than you'll ever be."
"Aye, sir."
"Damned punk." Norican said under his breath.
"Now, we've got a war to fight." Jensen said. "We’ll split the squadron in two. One team will be led by Ensign Deschamps through the ruins on the left and the rest will be led personally by me, through the ruins on the right. Each team will have two mobile fighters and one anti-ship gunner. The gentlemen from the bridge say that we have two corvette-sized targets. Take position, and do not fire before fired upon unless it’s my order. Remember, we’re in a warzone, but that doesn’t mean these two ships are military, so don’t be too trigger happy out there. Good to go?"
"Aye-aye, sir!"
"OK. Good. Be in your cockpits in five mikes. Let's get some."
***
The six pilots took their helmets, holstered their pistols, and brought what they had to bring from their lockers, and headed to The Tunnel. The Tunnel was the name given to the two-across corridor which separated the artificial gravity parts of the ship to the zero gravity hangar. Here, the Defenders were stored, and crewmen floated about here and there.
The Defenders stood tall and long, suspended by large arms that prevented them from floating around or, in atmospherical conditions, fall to the ground. The AF-24B ‘Dagger’ was designed as a multi-role fighting platform, being able to fulfill space, atmospherical, and anti-ship roles. The roles would change according to which ‘Striker Pack’ was used. Regardless of role, the Defenders were equipped with a 20mm Vulcan cannon on the chest and a high-power beamsword, which was able to cut through most metals but most effectively against other AFUs. The beamsword, however, was to be used only in the most pressing times, when cannon shot was no longer applicable and close-quarters combat was the only option. That was, however, according to the Manual. Each pilot had distinct fighting styles; and some preferred it up-close-and-personal.
In the event of ‘space’ combat – implying fighter versus fighter combat – they were equipped with high-mobility booster packs, a 40mm autocannon, and a shield that could cover at least the torso of the unit, where the pilot sat. However, pilots often requested acquisition of more personal weapons, such as anti-AFU Sniper Rifles or even anti-ship swords that could cut an AFU into two with one hit.
In ‘ground’ combat, the Dagger could be equipped with a large anti-tank cannon ranging from the considerably lighter 75mm to the heavy 105mm commonly used by main battle tanks. However, due to its weaker armor in comparison to tanks, AFUs had to utilize their high-mobility booster packs in the event of a tank vs. fighter battle.
In Anti-Ship combat AFUs were handed large battleship-style railguns, firing large, powerful beams that could tear right through a ship if shot in the right place. Naval commanders admired the mobility of AFUs in this case, as they acted not only as a buffer between one fleet and the next, but could ‘extend’ the range of a fleet’s engagement area. Such tactics were used at Sector 25B two years ago, causing a devastating defeat to the Arcturian Dominion, and depleting a large portion of their active Navy. 583Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTGVHzyC1l0
However, the situation had gradually changed since then. Fighting a war of attrition, the Lazarus Alliance - consisting of the United Kingdom of Hrasvleg and the Democratic Republic of Stahlven - were drained of their resources and experienced setbacks when faced with the better-equipped and numerous Arcturian forces. There was no other choice than fighting a defensive, hit-and-run war. The time will come when the Arcturians become too thinly spread and their war dragging on for too long. Then, it would be the time for attack.
The crewmen put final preparations in the adjustment of the Striker Packs, as the pilots made their way into the open chest-cockpits of the AFUs.
Technical Sergeant Ryck Norican climbed into his cockpit. As he put himself in his seat and adjusted the controls, Corporal Alan Alnuik, HRCM, floated next to him. “You’re assigned the anti-ship SP, Ryck.” He was dressed in an AFU crew’s light blue jumpsuit, as with the rest of the support crew and technicians of the Defenders.
“Shit, why me?”
“Well,” Alan said. He wore glasses and had curly hair, which was cut short to regulation. “Ensign Deschamps’ orders.”
“Heh. Alright. Make sure to get it on quickly. We’ve spotted two bogeys.”
“Roger that.” The corporal said. He looked down. “Hey, navy boys! Get a move on, will you! We need this flying bucket of bolts up and ready to go in three!” Unlike the rest of the crew, and through a weird twist of fate, Norican and Alnuik were Marines. It was also quite evident, as, in contrast to the Navy Defenders’ blue-and-gray paint job, Norican’s craft was green, dotted with a few camouflage schemes here and there.
After configuring the controls, Norican thought the machine was solid and in good state. “Should go on with the engine checks.” He said.
“I’d suggest that, too.” said Alan.
With a twist of a key and the pulling of a lever, the fusion reactor triggered, and the AFU switched on with a roar. The low hum of the fusion reactor was heard now. Using the pedals on his feet, he checked the feet controls. “Left foot check. Right foot check.”
He then proceeded to the rest of the body.
Hydraulics are good. Targeting systems good. Controls responsive and good. Weapon systems are good. OK. All good. Let’s do this.
“All systems good to go, Alan. Standing by for launch.”
Alan gave a salute. “Roger. Good luck, Ryck.”
“You too.” He returned the gesture. With a press of a few buttons and a pull of a lever, the cockpit closed, then buried once again by a sheet of titanium.
The systems switched on. View from both front and rear cameras of the Fighter Unit appeared on the computer screens in front of him.
“Cameras are good. Visuality five-by-five. Reaper 03 Standing by for takeoff.”
***
ns 15.158.61.5da2
