"It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air – there's the rub, the task"
-Virgil-
Rock Bottom
Part II
GOD FUCK!
Pain.
"But Dr. Clark, we can't give him anymore morphine, he's over his body's tolerable limit already. Any more and he'll die..."
"If we don't suppress the pain, he'll go into shock and die anyway. At least his nervous system has a fighting chance with the morphine."
STOP IT!
A crushing, piercing, rending, obliterating sensation – that's all there was.
"We've done everything we can, he has to fight this on his own~"
"NO! I am not going to loose another one to the fighting out there, not after we've come so close with him, not after the service he's done for us – we owe it to him goddammit!"
Someone please! MAKE IT STOP!
All other thoughts, all other sensations were swept away in a riptide of pure agony.
"If you have any suggestions, I'll hear 'em … "
" … He can be safely transported back to Corneria for further treatment if we induce a coma to stabilize him first. Maybe they've got some newfangled medicine over there that'll help him … Dr. Clark, we are getting wounded soldiers coming back from the field in torrents and they need our attention. We can't save everyone, but maybe someone else can save this guy."
I'll do anything, ANYTHING! Just take the pain away! … TAKE IT AWAY!
"Alright, let's do it... I need 200 milligrams of thiopental, stat."
I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!
"Its gonna be alright Mr. McCloud … We're sending you back home … You hear that James? … You're going home!"
I can't!... I can't... can't...
The flood of pain gradually drifted away, and its absence left nothing at all...
-
-
"Oh no, its not like that at all..."
He shook his head.
The solder was a blunt canine with blotched reddish white fur. His short-sleeved desert camouflaged uniform and exposed fur were practically infused with the local dust. He sat wearily on a row of sandbags overlooking an arid expanse of flat dusty land dotted with hardy trees and tough shrubs.
"What do you mean?"
Victoria Goura held the microphone closer the soldier. The avian journalist dressed in a tough, loose-fitting outdoors outfit, but with a flex-armor vest over over it.
The camera panned back to the dusty soldier.
"Its not about controlling an area of land, or a specific point on the land – it's about controlling the supply lines that cross the land."
Goura's voice was heard off-camera to the left.
"Supply lines?"
The weary canine confirmed the journalist's query with a nod.
"All armies, conventional or not, absolutely must have supplies in order to keep fighting. They need weapons, ammunition, fuel, medicine, a source of food, and in this climate especially, water. It all has to get moved from one point to another out here for any sufficient combat force to sustain itself."
"Is that why this camp is set up here?"
He looked out over the hot, dry landscape and the camera did likewise. It was a good long way down the slope, and the sparse trees across the flats almost appeared to dance in the heat-shimmer from evaporation.
"This zone is a kind of logistical bottleneck. The salt flats to the east beyond are too open for the enemy to risk trekking over and exposing themselves. The mountains to the west behind us offer plenty of cover, but are nearly impassible and impractical for a reliable ground-based supply chain. What we have here in front of us is a kind of middle-ground: the scattered trees offer some degree of visual cover, yet still allows for the swiftest possible mobility..."
The soldier turned back to Victoria and the camera.
"By disrupting the enemy supply chain, we'll deprive the Murrinh-Patha's fighting force of basic needs like spare parts to fix their gear, ammo to shoot, food to eat, and water to drink. They're given the choice to die by our fire, die out here of starvation and thirst, or give up. It's a tactic far more efficient and less risky than a blind assault into territory that the enemy knows so well."
"That kind of treatment seems a little harsh, don't you think?"
"Orders are orders..."
The dirty canine soldier shrugged.
"Besides, is it any less harsh than having an entire planet's infrastructure sucked dry by those parasites? Let's see how they enjoy being whittled down to nothing."
The bulky communicator attached to the soldier's uniform burst to life with a static-filled voice.
"Hawkeye four to Dingo six! Do you you copy?"
He raised the comm to his face and replied quickly.
"This is Dingo six. What's your status Hawkeye?"
"Three bogeys incoming, southbound and closing fast... They're supply runners Sir!"
'Dingo six' looked across the arid plains to the left. A trio of billowing dust columns streaked across the flatlands amidst the widely spaced trees, a wheeled off-road truck raced through at the tip of each erupting cloud.
"Looks like someone wants to try running the gauntlet..." The soldier brought his comm back up to his face as he barked his orders into it. "Denzel, get the mortar team blanketing the zone with firepower! Walker, send a bushmaster unit to intercept! Carling, I need your rangers out there on counter-ambush, you know it's coming! Whatever happens, don't let those bastards through!"
A refrain of 'Yes Sir!' responded through the comm's speaker and the soldiers all around snapped into work. The first barrage of mortar rounds fired off some distance away in a ringing fluted chorus as each explosive package was flung into the air. The dusty soil on the flats sprang up in dirty plumes when the mortars struck ground, but the three streaking runners weaved through the loose woods and around each explosion with ease...
A line of three lightly armored all-terrain vehicles painted in military camouflage screamed down the dirt road next to the camp toward the plains below, throwing up a torrent of dust as they passed. Two were equipped with heavy blaster mountings on the top hatches for infantry to use, and the third was armed with a row of missile launch-tubes. The bushmaster vehicles were gone and away as fast as they came, racing off to catch the runners in a dramatic high-speed chase across the outback...
James McCloud stood about ten feet from Victoria Goura and Lylat Tribune crew, busy capturing video footage of the ensuing battle. The fox was in his usual forest green two-piece with an assault rifle slung on his back – he omitted the jacket in the heat, leaving his arms bare to the elements instead. He watched the scene through a pair of digital binoculars, the two vehicle formations scurrying and weaving between the trees as they gradually converged on the dusty plains...
"I don't like this..."
"If don't mind my asking; what don't you like about it?"
Peppy Hare was nearby, similarly dressed and holding his shotgun steady.
"The dust, the heat, the dryness..."
The vulpine mercenary lowered his binoculars, letting them hang around his neck.
"I can deal with the elements, it's these roundabout tactics that I don't like."
The gray hare came alongside James.
"This ain't our battle to fight, we have a job to do here and we need to do that first and foremost."
"I'm telling you Peppy, the Murrinh-Patha uprising would've been nipped in the bud long ago if this was Corneria..."
He turned around toward the Papetoon Planetary Army camp. The mortars kept on lobbing explosives into the desert below, some soldiers were busy with communications or errands; but most of them were simply watching the conflict play out, and waiting for something to happen.
James McCloud returned his attention to his old friend...
"How long do you think they can just keep chipping away at each-other like this? It's only a mater of time before someone tries something desperate out there."
Peppy could only shrug as he tried to reassure his uneasy fellow mercenary.
"I dunno Jimmy, they're doing the best they can out here – Papetoon doesn't exactly have Corneria's sculpted military muscles. Maybe these news fellas can shed some light on the situation and draw attention, but we gotta protect them, make sure they can get the message out."
"By the time anyone hears about this, there might not be anything left worth fighting for..."
James brought the binoculars back up to his eyes, and he watched as the two streaking dust clouds came closer and closer on the flats. He noticed something on one of the runners' high-end 4x4 trucks, but it was difficult to make out through the dust it kicked up. The fox switched on the binocular's thermal imaging systems for a better look. The thermographic image revealed a transmitter array mounted on the back of the truck, and it began to glow with a rapid buildup of heat, of power output...
"Oh no..."
James dashed away from his position and called out to the soldier called 'Dingo six'.
"Call off the attack! Your guys are heading straight into a trap!"
The commanding officer waved James away,
"Listen mercenary, this is my battlefield. You're more than welcome to fight my wars for me so long as you go through PPA command for your bloated paycheck first..."
'Dingo six' sighed and turned his attention out to the desert below.
"You do the job you're hired for, and I'll serve my world with honor and dignity."
Frustrated, the fox slapped himself in the forehead.
"We don't have time for this bullshit, one of the runners has a jamming array. Your boys are all gonna lose contact out there any second, and they won't be able to coordinate like they need to... You could at least warn them if nothing else."
The blotchy furred canine rolled his eyes and activated his comm transceiver.
"Dingo six to Hawkeye four, please advise the operating units they might hit a comm blackout and have to operate blind..." He shot a scornful glance toward James. "Happy now?"
"Hawkeye four to Dingo six, you're a little late sir. We just lost contact with the ranger and bushmaster units a few seconds ago. What are your orders?"
A clattery explosion on the flats below drew their attention. It wasn't clear exactly what happened, but there was an awful lot of oily black smoke mixed into one of the speeding dust columns. The remaining vehicles kept swapping blasterfire between them as they charged through the loose and dusty woods at their breakneck speed. Then one of the military vehicles careened a way in a jumble after barely nicking a tree at high velocity~
"Orders, sir?"
"Dingo six to Hawkeye four, tell the medics to prepare an ambulance party for extraction and await further instructions..."
He turned to confront James, eyes aflame with quiet disgust.
"Stay out of my way mercenary, and don't fuck with my operations ever again."
-
-
James woke up.
It wasn't a normal wakeup. His every being wasn't trying to drag him back into sleep, he didn't slam his hand on some alarm clock like he normally would've. In fact, he didn't feel the slightest bit tired at all.
James stood up.
He didn't get out of bed, or stumble up from the ground, or collapse off a sofa. He was simply on his feet, or at least that's what it felt like.
James looked around.
It was a hospital, definitely a hospital. Nowhere else would've had the walls painted such a sterile shade of off-white. The other giveaway was all the equipment: monitors, machines, a whole lot of pouches with liquids in them, which hooked up to another medical doodad with a bunch of tubes coming out. All these tubes dangled down and~
Wait a minute...
James saw himself.
All these tubes, these monitors, these machines; they all connected to what looked an awful lot like the body of James McCloud. The body was still, laying on a plain white hospital bed and partially covered by equally plain white sheets.
But I'm out here... right?
One of the monitors clearly showed the rhythmic pulse of the body's heartbeat, but the heart-rate seemed naturally slow.
Okay, so I'm not dead... must be dreaming...
The door to the room opened and two people filed through, familiar people...
First was Peppy: fidgety, nervous, and looking anxious enough to burst under the pressure. It's not like this is the first time he's seen near-death up close and personal. Combat experience is supposed to desensitize people to death and danger. For Peppy however, it seems to have made him rigid and uptight – he really needs to lighten up, the poor guy...
Second was Scott: cold and melancholy as he's generally been since Sector-X. Nothing really bothered him anymore, but nothing really seemed to excite him either. The terrier looked at James' still form the same way he'd look at a pile of unpaid bills, or a broken piece of machinery. It's unfortunate, but it's just something that happens. Living past so many others' deaths will grind a man down like that...
Pigma wasn't in the room. He was outside the hall window, staring blankly at James' immobile body on the bed with a confused look to his face. The ambitious, barely adult swine wasn't entirely familiar with the hell of combat, and it showed. Should he be scared that James almost died? Relieved that he didn't? Worried that he still might? He was lost and in unfamiliar territory, but not yet so lost that he'd ask for directions, or maybe he doesn't think he needs any...
Peppy and Scott were next to the bed now.
The Hare spoke first, needing to get something off his chest.
"It didn't have to be like this..."
Scott nodded.
"Ye're right, he could be dead and gone instead."
The terrier's dry witticism did little to calm Peppy; if anything, it made him even more of a nervous wreck.
"I could've done more for him though. There were so many times I could've saved him from all this trouble, but he kept telling me to 'stay back', to 'stay away'. Alsost like~"
Scott shook his head and released a quick groan.
"It's not what ye think, the lad was just trying tae coordinate the attack as best he could. He needed ye where ye were, and it might've made all the difference..."
The terrier laid a hand on Peppy's shoulder and looked directly into his eyes.
"It wasn't yer fault, and he's not even dead, so don't go crucifyin' yerself with survivor's guilt..."
"This was a lucky break, even the doctors say he should've died..."
The hare broke off rubbing his head.
"If I could go back, I'd do so many things differently in that fight."
Come on Peppy old buddy, you gotta help me out here. What fight are we talking about? How the heck did I end up in that bed?
Scott came alongside Peppy again, slowly.
"We all wish we could go back and change things – keech knows I would'nae mind rightin' a few wrongs of me own. But ye're stuck playin' the cards that life deals ye, fucked or not."
Peppy let out a little chuckle to himself.
"Knowing Jimmy, I can tell you he just bluffs his way through life."
Of course I do...
Scott shrugged.
"If bluffin' wins the hand..."
It does, that's why I always beat you at poker Peppy.
The hare turned back around, addressing Scott more directly.
"But what if someone calls his bluff? I don't want him doing something stupid and getting himself killed out there."
A weak smile came across the aging terrier's face.
"Ye'd be surprised how many times 'stupid' but determined wins the fight – just take a look at politics fer example. Ye can at least thank yer lucky stars the lad knows how not tae die, or he'd have killed himself a long time ago..."
They were interrupted when the door opened again. It was a doctor, or some other hospital staff
"Excuse me, but we need to prepare the patient for transfer. You'll have to wait outside."
"Sure, no problem. Do whatever you need to do."
Scott and Peppy headed out the door.
No, guys wait! You still haven't said how I got here. Shit, I don't even know where 'here' is! You can't just leave me hanging! Come back!...
James tried to follow his comrades out of the room, but only got to the door frame before everything flashed back into silent white nothing.
-
-
Five spacecraft flew through the early evening atmosphere of Papetoon. The largest and most obious of them was an unarmed courier craft with the words Lylat Tribune prominently painted on the hull. The other four were the mismatched and varied collection of Star Fox's fightercraft, currently in escort formation. The party wasn't particularly high or low in the atmosphere since traveling point-to-point on a planet doesn't require a complete break into orbit and reentry.
"Ha! I knew I recognized you guys from somewhere. Decided to strike it out on your own did we?"
It was the avian journalist Victoria Goura on the comm.
James shrugged in general agreement.
"You could say something like that..."
The vulpine pilot sat relaxed in Fang's cockpit, now wearing his full flight regalia as the group made their transit across Papetoon.
"I don't blame you fine folks for going independent, seriously. I did some freelance work myself before joining up with Lylat Tribune. The freedom was pretty swell while it lasted, even if the money wasn't always reliable."
The fox nodded back. The topic wasn't exactly interesting, but it was a stretch better than long awkward silences.
"For sure, it's got its pluses and minuses..."
"Yeah..." Pigma butted in, "Like how everyone in uniform assumes we're all just a bunch of greedy sleaze-bags. I mean really, where do they come up with this crap?"
"Do yerself a favor Pork chop and clam-up, will ye?"
Even over the comm, one could almost visualize Scott with his face in the palm of his hand.
"What? It's true I tell ya."
"That treatment seems a little odd..."
Victoria sounded as if she had more to say.
"How so?" James encouraged.
"Thing is, people see freelance journalism as a noble and dignified profession, yet you say the freelance soldier is seen as selfish and blood-thirsty. Then the opposite is true for larger armies and broadcast companies... From where I'm standing, the whole thing looks pretty counterintuitive."
The fox stroked his jaw, intrigued by Goura's comparison.
"I guess that is kinda weird, I just never thought about it like that."
"Hold on a second, you're Vixy's latest catch aren't you? James McCloud?"
"Umm... yeah."
He'd forgotten that the journalist was a close coworker of Vixy's, and this dove seemed like a talkitive one...
"You best treat her good now. A nice hard-working young lady like her deserves better than some flake, take it from me."
"Can we please leave my personal life off the comm? It's not professional."
He was grasping for excuses. Except for possibly Pigma, James McCloud was among the least 'professional' of the team...
"It's not as if we have anything better to do until we get where we're going. You're not embarrassed by it are you?"
"No... it's... uh~"
"Fellas, I'm picking up something on the comm. Sounds like it's getting real nasty down there."
A part of James was almost relieved Peppy burst in over the comm like that – almost.
"Patch us in, let's hear it."
At first the channel was clogged with static, until a frantic voice found its way through the white noise.
"… ~been hit by some kind of long-range SAM system! G-diffus~ … ~ems compromised! We'll have to make an emerg~ … ~ding in the Mandurah salt flats! Need immediate extraction and suppor~ …"
Then it cut out completely – no white noise, nothing...
"Its a heavy airlift transport, headed for one of the PPA forward operating bases for a resupplying mission before it was downed..."
"Supply lines..."
It was Victoria.
"What about them?"
"One of the officers I interviewed said this conflict with the Murrinh-Patha was all about controlling the supply lines. Whoever controls the transport of supplies effectively controls the battles."
"Thats sounds like the military doctrine of constriction: if logistical support is cut off, then the army can't put up a fight."
"Maybe the Murrinh-Patha have gotten wise to it – turned the PPA's own strategy against them..."
Peppy came back on the channel, being the bearer of bad news once again.
"I'm seeing a huge kick-up of dust in the south heading for the flats. It's some kind of vehicle formation, and it don't look too friendly. My money's on them aiming to loot the transport since they didn't shoot to kill..."
James looked out toward the south, and there was indeed a towering column of airborne dust in that direction.
"Break off and recon that formation Peppy, see what what kind of firepower they're bringing to the party."
"Gotcha Jimmy."
The interceptor Thumper banked away and dove down at an impressive speed, disappearing from view in seconds...
The fox opened a general broadcast channel.
"To any PPA forces in the area, this is Star Fox one. We've picked up a distress signal from one of your airlift transports over the Mandurah salt flats, hostiles are inbound. Do you require any assistance?"
After a few seconds, he got a reply.
"This is Major Gillespie of the PPA to Star Fox one: that's a negative, no help needed. An armour platoon has already been deployed and is en-route to intercept the aforementioned hostile force. Carry on with your normal operations mercenary, we can take care of ourselves."
Gillespie cut himself off, showing some subtle contempt for McCloud.
Peppy chimed in from his end.
"They're coming onto the flats, I can see it clearer now without all the dust..."
The hare listed off his findings over the comm.
"... Looks like there's a bunch of high-speed rigs, a few mobile anti-air systems, some heavier armor, and... Oh my god..."
"What's up?"
"You're not gonna believe this but, they've got a mech down here – a Katinan Zmeya class Battlemech!"
"Crivens, the last time I saw one of those walkin' monsters was durin' the Titanian conflict..."
Scott spoke with the worried recollection of a veteran.
"It stands 75 feet tall, weighs 300 tons, is highly mobile, tough as nails, and packs enough firepower tae level a city. An armour platoon don't stand a lick of chance against that ravenous beast."
"This is of no concern to you mercenaries..."
An unfamiliar voice came into the communications channel, presumably someone from the Murrinh-Patha.
"Back off, keep your distance, and we'll do likewise. You will not get another warning."
"Form-up Peppy! Get out of there before they change their minds!"
"Fine by me."
James tried to get a hold of the PPA again, more urgently this time...
"Star Fox one to Major Gillespie, are you aware the hostile Murrinh-Patha force is being led by a battlemech? Your guys are heading straight into a meat grinder out there."
"This is Gillespie... We just confirmed... Shit... It's a battlemech alright..."
He was a far-cry from the confident solder James had spoken to not a few minutes earlier.
"But how the hell did they get one? These tramps weren't supposed to have access to advanced combat systems like that..."
"It doesn't matter how they got one, what matters is that they do have one and it's gonna blow your armor platoon into spare parts without some serious opposition. Star Fox is easily within range, let my unit take care of that mech for you."
"... They're moving too fast for an artillery strike, and our air support's too far away... Hmm..."
The unseen commander paused, struggling with his choices...
"Okay mercenary what's your price? How much is it going to cost us for you to make that goddamn mech disappear?"
"Nothing, this one's on the house."
Gillespie didn't believe his hears.
"Bullshit."
James couldn't help but laugh a little at the hardened soldier's reaction – he didn't have any reason to believe the fox's claim...
"Our contract is already bought and paid for by your government's treasury, we don't need any more money. Now do you want that Zmeya classbattlemech trashed or not?"
"... I only wish there were a few more honest mercs like you guys out there. Good luck Star Fox, Gillespie out."
The officer closed the channel
James let the silence drag on for several seconds, trying to find an easy way to say it... There wasn't one.
"Peppy, I'm gonna need you to hang back with the press for this."
"Huh?"
The hare sounded as if he was cheated out of an opportunity.
"But Jimmy, I can fight'em!"
The fox did his best to quickly explain his decision, anxious to act fast...
"These cowboys probably have a long range SAM system, or whatever it was they neutered that airlift transport with. The press'll be easy pickings if we all rush in at once. You have to stay back and intercept any missile sent their way, that's what we were hired for in the first place."
"But why me? Why can't you just leave Pigma behind for that?"
"Because Thumper is better equipped to take out incoming missiles... and I trust you more than anyone else get this right. Can I count on you?"
It was a few moments before Peppy resigned himself to his role.
"... I won't let you down Jimmy."
"You never do Peppy..." James replied, reassuring his old friend.
"Scott, Pigma, let's move it out!"
-
-
Leftover from a recent rainstorm, a sheet of water no thicker than one or two centimeters covered the entire Mandurah salt basin on Papetoon. It effectively turned the flat landscape into an endless, flawless mirror. The horizon – the division between sky and ground – was virtually nonexistent; one could almost believe they were standing on the sky itself. The complete surreality of it was blemished only by the bent and battered PPA airlift transport, crashed into the mirror's surface some distance away.
This was the view presented to the battlemech's serpentine pilot. The slick reptile sat strapped into a seat behind the war machine's elaborate instrument panel – slender hands grasping the controls. The serpent guided his steel monster across the reflective surface of the salt flat as a loose crowd of assorted accompanying vehicles swarmed around it.
"Damarri, the mercenaries are moving in for an attack." said the voice in his headset, "Are you prepared to combat them?"
Damarri swiveled the mech's upper segment left, and spotted the dots of inbound fightercraft in the distance.
"It is of little consequence, they will be swatted them from the sky like frail insects. May freedom guide you..."
"...and may it give you strength. The Murrinh-Patha shall fight on."
-
-
Three distinct fighters skimmed low and fast over the flooded salt basin, along with nearly perfect duplicates flying parallel in their reflections below. One seemed suspiciously ordinary, another loomed large and powerful, and a third – the formation's leader – cruised steadily but with pent-up tension.
"Alright guys, here's the game plan..."
A collection of scurrying dots began to creep over the invisible horizon far in front of the fighters.
"Assuming these guys are smart, they'll try to draw our fire toward the biggest perceived threat, the battlemech, and pick us off with anti-air systems. So our first priority is to neutralize their AA capability."
"What'd ye have in mind lad?"
One of the dots was considerably larger than the others, and kept growing with each closing meter.
"Reverse the tactics. Draw their close in anti-air fire away and hit them with a sucker-punch." James began, "I'll take some strafing runs over their normal ground units, make a lot of noise and draw attention to myself. That's where you come in Pigma."
"Oh yeah?" the swine responded with just a hint of elation.
"I need you to disappear in your stealth cloak, then dive on the AA units while they're distracted with me."
"Crafty and Underhanded, two of my favorite things..."
The unassuming form of Gizmo flickered with static and faded, until it vanished completely – invisible.
"When you're ready for me to jump outta the cake and crash the party, just say when."
That left Fang with just Nessie, patiently rumbling onwards next to the smaller coiled-spring of a fightercraft.
"What about that mech? Its not just goin' tae sit there and watch, ye ken."
"I know Scott, and neither are you."
"I think I see where this is goin'..."
"It's unusual for a jug like Nessie in most situations, but you'll take the pestering role. Keep your distance most of the time but the second you notice that battlemech lining up to lay down some fire, give it a big fat slap in the face with your choice of heavy firepower."
"Can do... And if I start takin' anti-air fire meself?"
"We'll rotate the bait, hook and pester roles during combat as needed, then regroup once the anti-air units are neutralized to focus on that mech. But remember that speed is key, take any openings you spot if it'll move things along faster... Any questions?"
"Aye, I got one: Can we get on with it already?..."
And none too soon. Fang's instruments warned James of incoming missiles 8000 meters away and closing – easy enough to avoid in a head-on engagement. 6000 meters. The vulpine pilot jammed the throttle forward, racing to meet the warheads in a deadly game of chicken. 4000 meters. Only a few seconds more... 2000 meters. He could see the the missiles streaking straight for him. 1000 meters. At the last possible moment, James rolled away and rocketed Fang into a steep climb while the bolting warheads overshot behind him...
Since lumbering Nessie lacked Fang's agility, Scott dealt with the missiles in a more direct fashion. He flew directly toward the incoming missiles same as James did, but fired on them in volley mode – with all barrels of the gatling blasters shooting at once. The heavy weapons filled the space in front with a dense spread of blaster-fire, pelting the surface-to-air missiles until they detonated harmlessly far from the terrier's fighter.
"Oh Shit! Look at that thing!"
Pigma didn't have to deal with any missiles since Gizmo was still in stealth mode, and they were all close enough to clearly see the target now...
The Zmeya class battlemech dwarfed all the other vehicles scuttling about. It stood on a gigantic pair of thickly armored reverse-jointed legs, supporting the main and independently swiveling 'torso' segment nearly 35 feet off the ground. The 'torso' bristled with a variety of heavy weapons including a block rocket tubes, a cluster of blaster cannons, and a shockingly large particle beam projector...
Above it all, James looped Fang out of his steep climb, pointing the fighter straight down at the swarming formation...
"Don't be intimidated by its size, that's exactly what they want from us right now."
He began a corkscrew dive, picking up tremendous amounts of downward speed...
"Stay fast, stay low, and stay focused on those AA systems. That's where they'll try to get us."
James spotted a group of eager vehicles gunning for the downed PPA transport, and widened out to line up a strafing run against them. Once in-position, the fox laid a line of blaster-fire across the scattering mass as he skimmed low over it. A few of them were hit, most weren't, but the fear sent them scrambling all over the place instead of gunning for the kill as they were.
Not surprisingly, James drew a great deal AA cannonfire as Fang pulled out of it. Strings of laser-fire sprayed into the sky trying to catch the nimble fightercraft.
"Now Pigma!"
Gizmo rematerialized above the battlefield diving straight for one of the anti-air units.
"Eat this and kiss my ass, sucker!..."
He launched a bomb and quickly climbed away before disappearing back into Gizmo's stealth cloak. The bomb hit its target dead on, obliterating the mobile anti-air unit in an explosion of burnt and twisted metal.
James found he wasn't taking AA fire anymore, the remaining units were combing the sky looking for Pigma – an opening. The fox wrenched Fang toward one of the self-propelled systems and boosted forward, spewing a stream of blaster-fire into the distracted vehicle. It wasn't completely destroyed, but its systems were damaged enough to eliminate it as a threat.
The third and final ant-air vehicle burst in a shower of shredded metal, ripped open by an high-velocity armor piercing shell...
"Scott, did you pop that one?"
"I saw an openin' lad, and I took it just like ye said tae."
The terrier's hulking fighter pulled out and away over his handiwork.
"Now what'd ye say we carve up that steel stilt-walkin'~"
*Crack!*
Nessie's shields overloaded, collapsed, and its right side fuselage was struck by a high-power particle beam fired from the mech. The flying juggernaut didn't seem to take much structural damage, but the oily black smoke pouring out of it's wound signaled other problems.
"Ach fuckin' bletherskite! It's all overheatin' on me!"
Any lesser fightercraft would've likely been completely decimated by such firepower.
"Pigma! Lets see if we can draw the mech's fire and keep it distracted!"
"Are you crazy or someth~"
"Just do it!..."
Fang and Gizmo swooped in with guns blazing, buzzing around the colossal battlemech like a pair of angry wasps...
"Now Scott! Get outta here while you can! We'll take out this mech."
The heavy fighter circled idly some distance away, but kept close enough for combat.
"Not yet, I can still fight. We just have tae make this a quickie, a one-shot-kill."
Nessie's shields flashed online again.
"But you're burning up! And how the hell are we gonna knock out a battlemech in one shot? It's impossible!"
The steel behemoth of a battlemech swiveled and stomped about the soaked salt flats, all while spraying angry streams of blaster-fire into the air to swat James and Pigma down...
"Wake up and smell the smoke lad! We can either scratch this beast quick, or we can get us, that armor platoon, and whoever's still in the transport all killed. So what'll it be?"
"What do you have in mind?" James asked, rolling away from a sweep of the mech's blaster-fire.
"Do ye know the shield-shucker maneuver?"
"Yeah, but that's for crippling a space cruiser."
The fox made a pass at the battlemech firing a harmless, but annoying volley of blaster-fire into it's impervious deflector shields.
"It should still work on a mech though..."
Maneuvering Fang in combat was second nature to James. Pure muscle-memory did most of the actual flying for him, which left a large portion of his mind free to make the needed tactical decisions...
"Let's do it."
He banked away hard, directing Fang to where Scott circled in the distance.
"On my signal Pigma, break-off and clear-out."
Gizmo was left behind to distract the mech a little while longer. The swine deployed the holographic 'ghost' of his fighter to throw-off the walking steel monster even more...
"The sooner the better!"
James quickly lined Fang up right behind Nessie's hulking hull – the mech on the other side several hundred meters away.
"Now Pigma!"
Gizmo darted off, vanishing behind its stealth shroud on the way out. Scott then Fired his heavy fighter's engines at full, bearing down on the towering Zmeya class battlemech with James following dangerously close behind...
"Ye're only gonna get one shot at this lad! Make sure it counts!"
With Nessie still bleeding smoke while it rumbled onward, the manic terrier opened-fire on the colossal mech with the gatling blasters in full-auto. The parallel torrent of fire caught the battlemech on its side, and it reared its face toward Scott to return a line of fire of its own. The two juggernauts faced each-other down, each swapping weapons-fire with the other as they came closer and closer – each grinding away at the other's deflector shield...
Scott's shields were weakening fast, almost on the verge of collapsing again. Just when it seemed old Nessie couldn't take any more strain, the terrier fired his cruiser-grade railgun at close range straight into the mech's cockpit 'face'. Scott's final shot struck only deflector-shields over that area, which flickered out as it just barely, partially, collapsed – completely unprotected.
"Shuck it!"
Scott veered away quickly, which left Fang screaming straight for the mech at nearly point-blank range. Without a moment to waste, James pulled the trigger for the bomb-release~
*Crack!*
Another particle beam from the mech burst completely through Fang's deflector-shield and tore the fighter's left wing clean off. Smoke, sirens, and all other sorts of warning signals filled the cockpot. James was losing control and had only moments left on a unalterable kamikaze-course. He could see the battlemech's serpentine pilot, flinching in fright as he realized his own demise – as he realized James' demise with him~
He ejected.
James McCould rocketed upward out of his doomed fighter strapped to the ejection seat. The sheer impact of moving so fast through the open air nearly blacked the fox out, numbing his awareness. By the time the vulpine pilot was fully conscious again, he was drifting lazily toward the mirror-like ground after his parachute deployed itself automatically.
The fallen Zmaya-class battlemech lay behind him – a slain steel giant, bleeding a plume of black smoke into the sky above. All the other enemy vehicles were scattered away, as if they were roaches exposed to a flashlight. They all fled every which way now that their great mechanized protector lay dead~
A hostile 4x4 light truck with a mounted blaster on the back was heading straight for the parachuting pilot, and the gunner spotted him. In the awkward position of the ejection seat, James hastily drew and armed his handgun while the figure on the truck aimed his own mounted blaster back at him...
Arm extended... Firm handshake grip... Line up front and rear sights with the target... Compensate for movement...
James took the shot, watching the blazing red bolt streak away as it found its mark – right in the target's head. The dying gunner managed to fire a few shots from his weapon in his final throes. Though he missed James, the shots still burned through some of the parachute's lines.
The right side of the parachute canopy flailed upwards, and the fox began descending much faster and with little control. That truck was still coming at him at a high speed, apparently not even aware of James as he came closer and closer on a collision course. With only a few feet to go and less time, the fox yanked on the left side lines of his parachute with both hands to jerk out of the way~
*Slam!*
It only half-worked.
A corner of the speeding vehicle barely grazed the side of his chest, but even the slightest nick is potentially lethal at such high speeds. Ribs were splintered, a lung was crushed, and his insides began to fill with leaking blood. James and the ejection seat were sent spinning away from the sudden impact for a seconds until crashing onto the soaked, salty ground below where he toppled sideways.
The jolt pierced the fox's chest with the stabbing pains of his own shattered ribs, detached from the rest of the ribcage and slipping all over the place on their own. James unbuckled himself from the seat and collapsed onto the hard, wet ground. Between the stresses of combat, the ejection's G-force shock, and the sheer disorienting pain of wrecked ribs, James McCloud was a jumbled mess the likes of which no mortal body should ever be forced to endure.
His vision began to fade, along with sound, smell, taste, and touch. He was barely aware of the frightened voices screaming into his headset, or the rumbling tanks and supporting vehicles from the PPA armor platoon swiftly closing in from the west. He was soon not even aware of the bright sun, or the soaked salty ground, or of anything at all...
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