LZ:
The Republic drop ship shuddered violently as the first of the anti-air bursts started streaking upward from the canopy of massive trees below. The pilot took the ungainly craft into a zigzag pattern, cleanly avoiding two more shots and skimming through the dissipating remains of third.
Delta 3-8, the leader of Delta Squad – or what was left of it – felt his teeth rattle as yet another burst exploded just in front of the cockpit canopy, spraying the drop ship with fire and pieces of shrapnel. Gripping the overhead handholds tightly, he kept his knees flexed so he could ride the resulting shockwave without loosing his footing.
"Pilot!" he shouted over the din of exploding shells. "What's our status?"
The pilot didn't respond as he rolled the drop ship onto its starboard side and dove sharply toward the canopy to avoid another volley of fire. Instead, the co-pilot glanced over his shoulder. "The landing zone is still five minutes out, sir!" he yelled back. "Our scanners are detecting multiple anti-aircraft platforms along our route!"
"That Separatist cruiser must have dropped them off before we killed it," Delta 4-0 – "Fixer" – added. "And I thought we'd already done the hard part!"
3-8 shook his head. "I've got a feeling that our day is just getting started," he said dryly.
"Aww, I haven't had my stimcaf yet!" Delta 6-2 complained.
"Since when did you start drinking stimcaf, Scorch?" Fixer asked.
"Since Trandoshans started trying to ruin my morning, every morning," Scorch replied.
Ordinarily, 3-8 would have put a stop to their chatter, but for now, he let them talk. He knew it was just a façade, a front to cover their anger and grief over the loss of Sev. He felt even worse than they did, he realized. He was the one that had made the final decision to leave Delta 0-7 to whatever fate had befallen him, and follow orders instead. Soon, it would be back to business, but in the meantime, he would let them deal with their grief in their own ways.
His attention was brought back to the present as the portable holopad in the center of the drop ship's troop bay flickered to life. The image of their Advisor, a low ranking clone officer who relayed orders to them from Command, resolved from the haze of static. "Delta Squad," he said, his voice almost exactly the same as 3-8's, "I've just received your next set of orders. Once your reach your designated LZ, proceed approximately five klicks north to this point here." His image faded and was replaced by a rotating tactical map. A red circular marker flashed over a heavy concentration of trees that appeared to be taller than most of the others in the area. "It used to be a sort of fortress for the Wookies, but shortly after this battle started, Separatist forces wiped out the garrison there and took it over. Now it's a command and control center for the anti-aircraft platforms in this area."
"You mean they're automated?" Scorch asked.
"Not exactly," the Advisor replied. "They're manned by standard battle droids, but because the trees are so dense here, the Separatist ships in orbit can't get reliable signals down there to each individual droid. So they're using the command center at Point Alpha as a relay station. Take out Point Alpha, and all the platforms go down. Once that's done, we'll be able to use this area as a muster point for the main battle that's about to take place west of here."
Another anti-aircraft burst exploded just meters to the port of the open troop bay door, filling the compartment with smoke and sparks for a brief second. One of the portside laser turrets imploded, and the body of the clone trooper that had manned it spun away into the forest below. Smoke and hydraulic fluids spewed from the wing, leaving a highly visible trail in the morning sky. The drop ship bucked and tried to roll, but the pilot and co-pilot managed to keep it steady.
"Scorch, get those hatches closed," 3-8 commanded. "We don't want to get killed by shrapnel before we ever touch down."
"Copy that, boss," 6-2 replied. He hit the hatch controls, and the doors slid closed.
"Delta Squad, are you still there?" the Advisor asked as the hologram flickered and sputtered. "I lost your transmission there for a moment."
"We're still here, sir," 3-8 responded. "But the LZ is only two-point-five minutes out, and things are starting to get hot down here."
"Right, I'll try to make this quick," the clone officer said. "Once you've taken out the command and control center, you're to proceed west and rendezvous with Battalion Six at the main battle site. You'll receive your next orders there."
"Understood, sir," 3-8 said.
The image of the Advisor vanished, and Fixer picked up the holo emitter and clipped it to his belt. "Convenient how they just assume that we'll live long enough to reach the rendezvous point," he muttered.
"Hey, Battalion Six," Scorch interjected. "Aren't they the guys that dropped into the arena on Geonosis at Zero Hour?"
"That's right," 3-8 confirmed. "They've been the best regular unit the Republic's had since the war started. Command must think they're in for a fight if Battalion Six is on the front line here."
The drop ship rattled again as more anti-aircraft bursts started blooming in the sky around it. The pilot glanced over his shoulder into the troop bay. "Coming up on the LZ! Sixty seconds until drop off!"
"You heard him, Deltas!" 3-8 yelled. "Weapons ready!"
The commandos snapped power packs into their blaster carbines and made last minute checks to ensure that they were combat ready.
"I've got a visual on the LZ," the pilot reported. He hesitated. "Something's wrong."
"Explain," 3-8 demanded.
"Scanners are picking up a lot of movement down there," the co-pilot put in as the pilot concentrated on avoiding the next round of fire. "Looks like the enemy is expecting you."
"That's impossible," 3-8 returned. "We didn't receive the coordinates ourselves until you picked us up."
"Could be just a bad coincidence," Scorch said.
"I wouldn't count on it," 3-8 said. "If there's one thing I've learned about this war, it's that there are no such things as coincidences – especially bad ones. Something must have tipped them off that we were coming."
"We'll make for the secondary LZ!" the co-pilot shouted over the increasing cacophony of incoming fire. "There's less activity there!"
"Almost there!" the pilot added. "Fifteen seconds –"
With a whump that jarred them to their bones, the world suddenly flashed white, then orange, as an anti-aircraft burst exploded less than a meter from the cockpit. The drop ship reeled crazily through the air, completing one full roll before it stabilized a bit.
3-8 looked up from where he had been thrown to the deck plates. 4-0 had been thrown to the back of the compartment, but was pulling himself upright with vehement curses. 6-2 was getting to his hands and knees, voicing the same displeasure.
The compartment was filled with smoke and small bits of flaming debris, and the view port in the portside boarding hatch had been shattered. Wind howled around the troopers as it streamed in through the new opening.
The cockpit had fared much worse. The canopy was mostly gone, and flames flared and sputtered from most of the consoles. The port forward cannon was bent up and across the front of the craft, torn nearly from its turret housing. The pilot was obviously dead. He hung halfway out of his seat, his armor scorched and stained with blood, his faceplate visor spider webbed with cracks.
The co-pilot jerked himself upright in his chair, struggling with the controls as the wounded craft started to fail. "Hold on!" he shouted, his voice tight with pain. "We're coming in too fast! I'm going to try to slow us down!"
"Deltas, if you're not holding onto something, now would be a good time!" 3-8 added. Suiting actions to words, he grabbed onto the overhead handholds with both hands.
A loud pop and the hiss of burning fuels announced the failure of the port engine, and the drop ship started to nose to the left. The co-pilot decreased power to the starboard engine to correct, dipped the craft to avoid a scarlet burst of turbolaser fire, and somehow managed to keep the burning craft moving forward. Its fuselage shuddered and groaned as it stubbornly flew on, threatening to come apart at any moment.
"Touch down in five!" the co-pilot yelled.
"Opening starboard hatch!" 3-8 shouted. He unslung his blaster carbine as his two companions stepped up next to him, ready to exit the craft at his command.
The hatch ground open slowly, and as it did, 3-8 caught a brief glimpse of a narrow, wooden landing platform just meters beneath them. Then the drop ship slammed down with shattering force, and he found himself tumbling out the hatch onto the platform amid a cloud of splinters, metal, and smoke. 4-0 and 6-2 landed next to him.
They came up firing, aiming for a quartet of battle droids that had survived the spray of shrapnel and were charging headlong toward them. The first droid lost its head to a cerulean burst and went down, while two others spun away with shots to the torso. The last simply exploded as a hail of blue fire converged on it.
3-8 was still shaking off the effects of the rough landing as he took cover behind a pile of metal crates and tried to take stock of the situation. The platform, hewn from a huge, living branch of a giant worshyr tree, was swarming with battle droids, a handful of super battle droids, and numerous gun emplacements. There was even a turbo laser mount set up on the far side of the platform from his position.
"We're on the platform!" he shouted to the co-pilot over his helmet's comlink. "Get out of here!"
"Negative!" came the static-filled reply. The burning drop ship howled as it slowly lifted off the platform, its single remaining laser cannon spitting green fire at the targets swarming around it. "I'm not going anywhere until you're clear!" Wood splintered and droids exploded as the co-pilot started emptying his magazine of concussion missiles into the nearby trees, using their shockwaves as weapons. The laser cannon swung around, vaporizing a pair of battle droids before impaling a super battle droid. "Now get moving!"
"Copy that!" 3-8 replied soberly. "Delta Squad, move out!" He led the team toward one of the bridges that led off the platform, into a neighboring cluster of trees. As they went, he saw the turbolaser start to track them. "Move, move, move!" he urged.
"Oh, no you don't!" the pilot exclaimed over the com.
The drop ship's starboard engine flared out and burned as more thrust was applied than it could handle, but it was enough. The crippled craft lurched forward and plowed into the turbolaser emplacement, exploding into flame as it struck. The turret wobbled for a moment, then blew up, and the wreckage of both it and the drop ship tumbled over the side of the platform, along with a good portion of what was left of the battle droid unit.
In the lull that followed, Delta Squad quickly slipped across the bridge, and vanished into the trees.