We already have the 3 million dollar sword. Unless you retcon it away. But if you don't, that means we have a 3 million dollar piece of bling, just as a cosmetic upgrade.
That obviously means we're the best pilot. I'm sure.
A sharpshooter is not a sniper. A sniper operates along with one or two other people covering the sniper.
If the sniper team ends up in combat they've fucked up (the closest they should get is supporting other engaged units in the middle of a battle).
A sharpshooter is the squaddie equivaleny. The guy the team leader talks to when he or she spots someone they specifically want fucked up. (Grenadiers for places or groups they specifically want to fuck up. And Pointmen are canaries.)
That said if the team moves carefully into combat and avoids tripping off ambushes the sharpshooter being able to reliably do the job is more important than the sharpshooter being able to handle combat.
... Also, in terms of pilot callsigns in the airforce , a callsign along the lines of sniper, sharpshooter or the like indicating precision tends to indicate they blew up something by accident they shouldn't have in a particularly noteworthy manner. They are also specifically also is sometimes used for people who accidentally discharge guns in exercises.
I'm thinking too much about everything. Gotta streamline things a little.
Happy New Year to everyone from Australia. May 2020 be less of a dumpster fire than 2019 was.
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"Ricky Eagle Buster Johnson the Third, I presume?"
You break your trance and turn to face the speaker. He's a tall, lean man, with fair skin and a mop of copper hair that you're pretty sure isn't in compliance with the grooming standard. Not that you can throw stones: your own black hair is a few millimetres over the limit, something which every officer you've met so far has seemingly overlooked.
And speaking of officers… he's wearing the same camouflage utilities that you are, but where you have a single bar stitched into your lapel, he has two.
You stiffen and salute. "Captain Tanner, sir."
He returns it. "Glad you're finally on board with us, Lieutenant. It'll be good to field a full-strength squadron again."
"I'm just happy to be here, sir."
"I'm sure you are." Tanner glances over at the Q-35 you were just caught admiring. "I don't know if you're aware, but this isn't actually yours. It's a spare unit we're keeping fuelled and ready to go, just in case something happens. Yours is just over there."
"Oh." There isn't much else to say. You feel your cheeks burn red with embarrassment.
The captain regards you for a moment, then cracks a smile and claps you on the back. "Never mind that, Johnson. Let's get you squared away with the rest of the squadron."
He steers you over to a small group of other officers, easily identifiable as pilots by their uniform patches. As you approach, they cease gossiping and lock their eyes upon you. The intensity of their appraisal makes you fidget. You hope not to disappoint.
Under Capt Tanner's direction, you shake hands with everyone and introduce yourself to the people you're going to be trusting with your life for the next nine months of your deployment.
"Second Lieutenant Antonia Clarke, rifleman." Her tone is dull and monotone, as if she's completely uninvested in the conversation. She holds an interesting stance, one that somehow manages to be slouched and poised at the same time. Beneath golden hair tied into a bun, dark green eyes stare into yours, unblinking, until you soon give up and look away.
"Second Lieutenant Patrick Hansen. I run point for this outfit." Unlike the others, he's wearing only a uniform T-shirt that emphasizes his broad chest and the enormous biceps bulging out of both arms. He reminds you of the bad guy from The Karate Kid, except a lot younger and with a butch cut. "Hope you keep up better than the last guy did."
"Second Lieutenant Richard Buck." He grins confidently, eyes concealed by a pair of aviators. A wiry man with an easy posture, he has cropped brown hair and a noticeable shadow around his chin and upper lip. "You need boom, I'm there. Eventually."
"First Lieutenant Robin Taylor. I'm the assistant squadron leader and have sharpshooter qualifications." Apart from the captain, she's clearly the second-oldest one here, though in practice that only really means a few years' difference. Compared to everyone else, her manner has a refined, mature lilt to it. Her dark brown hair hangs loosely down her shoulders, and her skin appears to gleam under the hangar floodlights. "It's nice to meet you. I look forward to working with you."
"So, enquiring minds around here really wanna know," 2nd Lt Buck says, and you know from painful experience what's coming, "did your parents really name you Ricky Eagle Buster Johnson the Third?"
"Yes," you answer with as straight a face as you can muster. "My grandparents were Ricky Johnson and Rosemary Buster. When my grandfather enlisted for World War Two, his recruiting officer got the ledger mixed up with his ornithology diary. He didn't understand why officers kept calling him Eagle until he got to the front. By then he kind of liked it and decided to change his name when he got married. Then they called their son Ricky Eagle Buster Johnson the Second and, well…"
"Wait, your grandma was named Rosemary Buster? You mean that's actually a real surname somewhere?"
"That's right. It comes from the ancient Anglo-Saxon tribes of Britain. It derives from the Latin avis tarda, which means–"
"Gay," 2nd Lt Hansen eloquently chimes in. "You hear any good war stories from your grandpa?"
"Sort of?" You scratch the back of your head. "He didn't like me retelling them, though. He always said that I should make my own stories, y'know?"
"Double gay. But I can kinda respect that."
"So is serving in the military a tradition in your family, then?" 1st Lt Taylor asks calmly, temporarily overriding everyone else.
"Not exactly," you admit. "My dad's an engineer. He always said it was better to build stuff than to blow it up."
2nd Lt Clarke snorts loudly at this. When you glance over, her face twists in a scowl and she turns away from you.
"It sounds like you have quite the family history," Taylor remarks, ignoring the display of rudeness from her subordinate.
"You could say that, ma'am," you reply affably.
"What made you decide to–"
The predictable question is cut short by the buzzing of a klaxon, broadcasted throughout the hangar in short and sharp bursts. Even after innumerable drills, it takes you a second to recognize it–
"Combat alert!" the captain barks. "Everyone, get your suits on and get ready to sortie! I want us prepped and ready for take-off in fifteen!"
"Yes, captain!" the squadron choruses with varying degrees of enthusiasm; and they all dash off, leaving you standing blankly on the hangar floor.
"Is something the matter, Johnson?" Capt Tanner enquires politely after a few moments.
"W-well, sir," you attempt to articulate your misgivings, "I haven't even gotten set up yet, there's shakedowns and calibrations, and then I still need to–"
Tanner takes you by the arm, stopping you before you can get too carried away. You're not sure whether this constitutes some sort of harassment.
"Take it easy, Lieutenant," he says gently, looking directly into your eyes. "Your crew knows what they're doing. Everything's been set up for you already. All you have to do is sit down, strap yourself in, and think happy thoughts. Okay?"
"Okay."
"That's the spirit. You're gonna be fine. Just keep a cool head and follow my orders out there."
He releases you, and you follow him half-dazedly to your machine.
Combat alert. You're going to fight the enemy.
Now that you're finally here, it doesn't seem real.
----------
"As I'm sure you're all aware, the Syrian government has been conducting a large-scale offensive on the highway between here and Damascus," 1st Lt Taylor explains, helpfully indicating the relevant parts of the map with a laser pointer. "Their goal is to recapture the highway and secure the border with Iraq, which will let them isolate the rebels."
A big blue marker pops up on the map. "To protect the right to self-determination of the Syrian people, the United States has established a deconfliction zone centred on the al-Tanf border crossing, with the cooperation of a rebel group known as the Revolutionary Commando Army."
Red OPFOR markers appear on the map. "At about 1520 hours today, we received word that Syrian government forces have entered the deconfliction zone and are approaching al-Tanf. We suspect they might be trying to attack the nearby refugee camp at Rukban, which hosts over fifty thousand refugees from the civil war. Intelligence suggests that the Syrian Arab Army is moving two companies of tanks southwards, likely augmented by pro-government militias."
A smaller group of blue triangle markers sweep across the map. "The soldiers at al-Tanf have requested our support. Upon the conclusion of this meeting, Queen Squadron will immediately deploy to intercept the enemy. Our objective is to stop them from reaching either the base or the camp, and dissuade the Syrian government from further aggressive actions. Any questions?"
"Yeah." 2nd Lt Hansen raised a hand. "What kind of tanks are they using?"
"T-62s," Taylor answered shortly. "M and K variants."
"Oh." Hansen crossed his arms. "And here I was hoping for a real fight."
Capt Tanner shot him an irritated look. "Don't underestimate them. All it takes is one hit from their main guns and you'll be mobility-dead. I won't have any more heroics around here, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, the details of our deployment–" Taylor begins.
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The duffle bag you carried with you on the plane here is unzipped, and out comes your pilot suit, personally fitted and customized to your needs. It's perhaps most accurately described as the bastard mad science child of a traditional flight suit and Gothic plate armour, Nomex meta-aramid fibre and ceramic trauma plates woven together to provide maximum protection against sudden shocks, spalling, whiplash, and fire. The downside, of course, is a constant and deeply uncomfortable pressure around your crotch as you seal it.
As the captain promised, your Q-35A boots up with a minimum of fuss, something that utterly shocks you as you settle down in your seat and check all the connection points. It's made of an amorphous gel that ripples gently under your weight, its tendrils flowing slightly around your limbs and sticking to the material of your pilot suit. Flicking the necessary switches to begin the booting-up sequence, you fill the time by checking that all your seat connectors are secured, and then lifting your flight helmet up – a smooth, black bubble complete with polarized visor – to bring it down over your head, locking it into your suit's neck brace with a click that reverberates through your skull.
Different pilots feel different sensations as the electrical current begins to flow into their mecha's suite of QM chips, arranged equidistantly in a sphere around the cockpit. For you, it's a tingling that begins in your fingers and toes and spreads along your arms and legs, before the spark ignites and your nervous system is engulfed in flame.
The first time you synchronized with a trainer back at Laughlin AFB, you couldn't stop shivering for hours afterwards.
The fire cools as the synchronization process completes. You flex your fingers over the throttles as the computer begins to run through the pre-launch checklist. The misgivings fade away toward an icy focus.
This is what you trained for. This is your profession. This is your duty.
This is your destiny.
The pre-launch check completes. Several dozen error messages pop up for you to blink away. Half of your systems are green; the rest are amber.
Acceptable.
The ground judders as the Q-35A takes its first hulking steps out of the bay, the twelve-metre tall titan moving under its own power against all odds. Technicians and engineers scurry out of your path, mere mortals cowering in the shadow of your might.
Once you clear the stifling confines of the hangar, your speed starts to pick up, actuators cycling faster until each stride covers dozens of metres at a time.
Tearing down the length of the runway, the open sky calls to you, and you answer. With the contract and release of your legs, the Q-35A is suddenly soaring through the air at a dangerous velocity.
Approaching the apex of your arc, as gravity fights to reassert itself, the extensive array of solid-fuel rockets clustered around your waist ignites. The burst of acceleration hurls you back into your seat and your machine up and forward into the heavens. The earth below instantly fuses as the plume washes over it, leaving a trail of glass to mark your passing.
The cockpit shudders as you settle into what can be very loosely described as "cruising altitude". In reality, you are now the exemplar of a flying brick, propelled in a parabolic arc that will roughly terminate at your destination. Should one of your rockets misfire or fail unexpectedly, you could be sent kilometres off course. It's a fate that doesn't bear thinking about.
A glance at your radar shows that everyone else successfully made it up here. You're all currently "cruising" in a wedge formation towards the enemy. Estimated time of arrival: 23 seconds.
When you get there, what will you do?
[] Take the fight to them.
The Syrian tankers are unlikely to be very well coordinated. A decisive strike on their flank could potentially wipe out several tanks straight away and cause the rest to scatter, thereby letting you follow up and defeat them in detail.
[] Let them come to you.
You know roughly where and when the Syrians are advancing. While the T-62's main gun has a respectable range for how ancient it is, it's unlikely that they'll be able to make full use of it. Keep your distance and try to pick them off from long range.
[] Write in a tactic. Write-ins disabled: Insufficient Leadership and squadron authority.
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It wouldn't be a proper first episode without a surprise attack to kick things off, now would it?
My grasp of military life and elementary physics is still somewhat amateur at best, so if I do write anything especially egregious, please don't hesitate to call me out on it.
[X] Let them come to you.
You know roughly where and when the Syrians are advancing. While the T-62's main gun has a respectable range for how ancient it is, it's unlikely that they'll be able to make full use of it. Keep your distance and try to pick them off from long range.
We are the Airforce, picking off tanks at range is the logical thing to do. Stay mobile and airborne and out of effective range of the tanks' guns.
[X] Let them come to you.
You know roughly where and when the Syrians are advancing. While the T-62's main gun has a respectable range for how ancient it is, it's unlikely that they'll be able to make full use of it. Keep your distance and try to pick them off from long range.
...I regret creating that maximum maintenance voting stats schema.
Whatever, painful character creation is over time to make the best of this boy.
[X] Let them come to you.
... As if Rookie Butterbar will have any say in how the engagement is conducted. Squadron leader will decide, if not ordered by higher, oh and the enemy gets a vote (which is why it is usually a good idea not to be passive).
Were write ins allowed, I'd say hang back and back up your wingmen, follow your leads cue. As is, the closest to that is:
Letting them come to us means facing tanks head on.
Even when you have a far superior tank, you don't want to face enemy tanks head on if there are options. If you're not in a superior or equivalent tank, facing enemy tanks head on is generally considered suicide.
Now, if the wording of the option mentioned setting up flanking shots, I may have stuck to it, but since we'd be best of constantly relocating, we may want to be more aggressive (to whatever extent that is possible within the frame work of the squadron chain of command) in getting those flanking shots.
