Fits

Sarra System
11:30 SET
2195

The complacency of space rippled and 42 Glorious Army of Reform and Truth bombers appeared where there was previously emptiness.

The person in charge of the bombing raid, a Commander Travis English, flipped on his squadron wide communicator. The fighters were all UNSF-owned planes, mostly stolen or bought on the black market. The pilots themselves had been trained to be cold, ruthless, and effective killers. They were professionals.

“Be ready to launch the assault as soon as we enter the atmosphere, Commander English was saying. “By the time they realize we’re here, we’ll be heading on our first run. This should go smooth as clockwork.”

The squadron passed Sarra III, heading for the Intelligence base on Sarra IV. The fighters broke from cruising formation to an attack formation.

“Alright fighters,” English started. “Be prepared to--”

English didn’t have time to finish the sentence. From behind the squadron came the small ragtag ensemble that had been mocked together to prevent the bombing. Leading the way were the modified shuttles of the Explorer’s, firing furiously, laying down cover fire for the actual small squadron of attack fighters to commence their run.

“It’s an ambush!” one of the GART pilots cried over the communications. “They knew we were coming!”

No sooner had the pilot finished his sentence then the ships from UNSF Intel attacked the pilots from the opposite direction, effectively sandwiching the bombers.

Leading the operation was Commander Grant DaNastie, bobbing and weaving amongst the traffic, glad to be in a fighter. “Dogfight!” he called over the comm. “Take out whoever you can!” He liked to keep things simple.

Commander English didn’t have time to wonder what went wrong. Currently, he had one of the armored shuttles coming in his sights. Switching from lasers to missiles, he patiently waited until he got an affirmative lock. That established, he released a pair of missiles. The thin object of death hit the shuttle broadside, disintigrating it. English laughed and hopped back in the fray.

The explosion caused Broadaway's head to snap to the left to see what happened. In doing so, he lost focus of the ship that was about to be in his sights. Frustrated, he pulled back on the stick and rose, completing a banking maneuver be could never do with the Explorer.

The fighter had disappeared. He frowned, looking around. The sound his fighter gave him told him that it was behind.

"I need help!" he cried, juking his fighter to avoid, being an easy target. "Serena, help!"

"Occupied," was the only answer he got.

The GART pilot smiled as he closed in on Broadaway's fighter. "Goobye, scum," he said before tightening the trigger.

The 2 laser shots hit Broadaway's post wing, making him spiral. Diving down to finish him off, the GART pilot didn't notice the UNSF Intelligence fighter come from his starboard side and release a missile.

Broadaway's breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, fighter, he said, struggling to regain his control.

"No problem," came the reply. "Just do the same for me."

"Roger that."

The fierce battle continued for way longer than it should have. Maradine's pilots didn't expect to encounter such heavy resistance in what was supposed to have been a simple bombing operation. Though they were efficient and lethal squadron, they were totally caught off guard by the ferocity and tenacity of the ragtag defense force.

The alternate DaNastie whooped for joy as he bagged his third fighter. It wasn't that enjoyed taking the life of another; it was something you had to be emotionally detached from.

Stephen DaNastie, on the other hand, wasn't having such a great day. Parts of both his port and starboard wing had been taken off, due to enemy laser fire. Currently, he was in yet another heated engagement, on the losing end.

“If I could get a little bit of help here, guys, I'd really appreciate it,” he called out, avoiding laser fire. He performed a split-s curl to change direction. Unfortunately, it landed him in the sights of another enemy fighter, this time on a missile lock.

“Cripes!” Stephen yelled, banking to port to avoid getting creamed by a missile.

“I’m coming, DaNastie,” came Serena’s voice. “Just hold on.”

“Easy for you to say.” He kept his fighter in erratic movements to keep from being locked onto.