It was the last days of a dying dream.
Two Eagles, scuffed and worn, the brown-orange dust of the Woomera desert creeping into every rivet, panel, and seam, lit their engines. The black-and-white stripes of mercenaries adorned the tails of their planes, the golden sun of rebellion emblazoned on their noses and their wings.
That ever-defiant sun was setting.
The pilot looked over his plane's cockpit as he sat at the end of the runway, checking instruments and sensors. Everything seemed to be in working order, a shock given the mass exodus of mechanics and whatever parts they could take with them, a tide of doomed passengers leaping off the rail of a sinking ship.
Had he joined for the money? For the dream of Oceanian liberation? For the thrill? He wasn't quite sure anymore. Something like that, he thought. A fat paycheck with a side of freedom sure sounded real good. Shame the Federation had to fuck that up nice. "Woomera ATC, this is Brimstone One. Requesting takeoff, runway one-two left."
As he reached for the throttle, the pilot took in his surroundings. The sunset cast an orange glow across the sky as heat painted spectral ripples across the outback, the wind whipping up dust in its wake. His wingman, Merlin was off his left, and on the other runway, the last of the base's myriad C/T-17s sat, stuffed to the brim. The cargo plane waited for its final passengers as the rest turned south, headed for what would hopefully be safety. "Brimstone One, Woomera Tower." The ATC's voice came through, a tinge of sorrow. "You two are cleared for takeoff… last time I'm ever gonna say that, probably." The controller hung his head. "I'm sorry. I really am. We're all in your hands now, Brimstone. Been an honor servin'."
"Same to you, Tower." Merlin's voice crackled through the radio, the usually confident pilot betrayed by his tone as regret dug its claws into his words. "So long, buddy. 'Til better days…"
"That's us out, then. Hit the lights, Bryce. Let's go." Duffel bags of equipment zipped shut in the background. "This is Woomera Air Base of Free Oceania, signing off. Good hunting, Brimstone… You two always did have the devil's own luck." The ATC's transmission cut out.
This wasn't the first contract the mercenary had seen go south. The Federation had a habit of doing that when it got involved, but… this country was his home. He had fought across the world, in every hemisphere's skies, and under the twinkling starlight of Crux was no different. You're never going home again, he knew. Yet, there was a creeping emptiness to it all, and he could muster no more emotion than a simple mutter. "Shame."
The two fighters circled the airbase, their radars sweeping the skies. Most of the base's fighter complement had joined the convoy of C/T-17s as an escort. They were the rearguard. Wasn't the first time, but both the mercenaries knew this was the last time. The Federation had pushed the Oceanian forces, regular and mercenary alike, who hadn't surrendered or defected down to the bay, and Woomera had been the last airbase between the Fed line and the port itself. The evacuation had begun, the remnants of Oceania's naval forces trying desperately to contend with Federation naval power, to escape to wherever they could.
"I'm getting a little nostalgic, buddy," Merlin said. "Feels like yesterday we just got in here."
"Nostalgic? For the start of a losing war?" The pilot shook his head. "If it weren't for the money…"
"Really? Where's your patriotism?" His wingman laughed. "Feels like I care more about this country than you do."
"Probably 'cuz ya do, Lazza, ya bloody tourist."
"It's Merlin in the air, buddy. Them's the rules. You know that."
"Don't think there's much point in rules, these days." The merc glanced down at the F/C-15's instruments. Little low on twenty-mil rounds. Probably not much left on base.
"I don't think you ever did, Cerberus."
They cruised, flying circles as the base's evacuation saw its finale, the C/T-17 carrying the ATC soaring into the skies over the outback. "Well, Lazza, we're not here to fuck spiders. No point stickin' around, let's form up with the transports."
The wingman replied, trying, and failing, to stay composed. "Fuck spiders? You guys really do love your wacky expressions."
"Oi, it's just a way to say 'fuck aroun-" The mercenary was cut off by the chirp of the radio. "Brimstone, this is AWACS Copperhead. We've got an inbound flight. Federation IFF. Tally five bandits. Two Flanker-Foxtrot, three Flanker-Alpha."
"Shit," Merlin said. "Cobalt?"
"Can't make out a positive ID, Brimstone Two." The AWACS seemed nervous. "But it's possible."
"It's them." Cerberus grit his teeth. "It has to be the bloody blue bastards."
"You certain, buddy?"
"Dead certain."