In a world that is far too much like our own, the United States of America built mechas, and promptly deployed them to conflicts all over the globe. With swords.
As the new pilot of a US military mecha, you will demonstrate your superiority over the infantry, tanks, and mechas of other nations. With swords.
Also known as: Political Mecha Quest.
I'm also somewhat partial to: Atlas Stumbled.
This is intended to be a short, victorious quest to boost my popularity and distract from my other, bogged down questing quagmire. As such, it will have a hard deadline of 29th February 2020 for its completion. The aim of this restriction is to encourage me to write rough and fast, avoiding perfectionism, and to curtail the scope creep that tends to afflict most of my works.
Content Warning: This quest features and makes reference to contemporary politics as a background setting element. If you read quests to get away from politics, then this one probably isn't for you.
I preemptively apologize if anyone's nation, culture, belief, or institution is unjustly typecast or otherwise impugned upon.
----------
The afternoon sun assaults you with its glare, overwhelming after twenty-four hours inside the dark and confined interior of a C-17 transport plane. As you wince and hastily dig out your sunglasses, red and brown dust kicks up from the ground, besmirching your oh so lovingly polished boots. It's probably just the heat shimmer, but as you step out onto the tarmac, you swear it's already melting beneath your feet.
Now safe from the sun's fierce glare, you look around and acquaint yourself with the view. You're going to be seeing a lot of it for a while.
As far as exotic foreign locations go, this one manages to be solidly underwhelming. A desolate scrubland of dirt and gravel stretches out as far as the eye can see, with the occasional tuft of grass or row of bushes to break the monotony. Somewhere far off in the distance, you think you can even make out a solitary clump of trees.
Iraq.
America invaded this country while you were learning how to add and subtract small numbers. Fourteen years after George W. Bush stood on a carrier and declared mission accomplished, that dream of liberal democracy in the Middle East feels ever distant and ephemeral.
At least you won't have to interact with any of the locals. H-3 Air Base is a secure location, with a perimeter of barbed wire, tank traps, and land mines to prevent any unauthorized access to America's wonder weapon. The only way in and out is through the runway.
"Lieutenant?" A military policeman in full battle rattle approaches you. "I'm Corporal Ross. If you'd like to follow me, the hangar is just this way."
The two of you make small talk as he escorts you off the runway. "How long have you been here, Corporal? See any action?"
"Nine months, sir," he replies affably. "I came out here with the second wave, once they finished refurbing everything. It's been a pretty exciting time, what with all the rockets. One time they hit the chow hall – no-one died, but we were all eating out of our helmets for weeks."
"Lucky you," you comment, abruptly conscious of the distance to the nearest hard cover and your conspicuous lack of head protection. The wide open skies don't seem quite so inviting anymore.
The corporal says something else, but the conversation is suddenly drowned out by a noise you now recognize very well. Distinct from the heavy whine of jet engines, this is a low roar that swiftly intensifies until it overpowers all other sounds in the scene, the very ground beneath your feet trembling appropriately before its might.
The sight accompanying this is no less impressive, and even after a year of training and a lifetime of movies, it still never fails to astound you.
A mighty colossus descends from the heavens, riding a chariot of holy fire that blazes even brighter than the sun. Painted in your service's camouflage, its sleek titanium alloy frame gleams dully as the conflicting sources of light play across it, hulking limbs and powerful actuators poised to cushion its landing. Stowed on its back is a long, slim hunk of carbon steel, tapered to a wicked point; all the better to smite its enemies with.
You involuntarily take a breath as its head rotates slightly to acknowledge your puny, mortal existence, its all-seeing eyes glittering emerald in recognition. The word majestic slips from your mind, and nearly from your lips.
Then one of the mecha's legs buckles underneath it and the whole thing comes crashing down, the god amongst men transforming into a sad little pile of carbon and titanium in the merest blink of an eye.
There's a prolonged moment of shocked silence between you, as you blink repeatedly in a futile attempt to disbelieve the event that just occurred before you.
Then Corporal Ross turns to you. "I sure hope that wasn't meant to be your ride, sir," he remarks, with a massive shit-eating grin on his face.
----------
You are the newly-commissioned pilot of a US military mecha.
How did it come to this?
Select your name, if you wish to. This vote will be counted separately from the others, which will be counted as a set.
[] Peter Reynolds.
[] Write in a name.
Select your personal background. This will affect your personality and relationships with others. Bonuses and maluses apply only to you.
[] The Unguided Genius.
You coasted through middle and high school without much difficulty; a blessing which turned into a curse, once you obligatorily arrived at college and promptly floundered. Disenchanted by the prospect of crippling debt and a demeaning job hunt at the end of it all, you wandered into a recruiting station on campus one day. The rest, as they say, is history.
You have a creative streak that hasn't been ground down by the real world yet, but you dislike confrontation and only signed up for the pilot benefits. +1 Maintenance -1 Combat
[] The Juvenile Delinquent.
You clashed repeatedly with all forms of authority as you grew up, from the lunch money rackets in junior high to the police pulling you over for weed. Eventually, one of your misadventures caught up with you, and you were given a stark choice: enrol in the JROTC's junior pilots program, or go to prison for a very long time.
If you knew then what you do now, you would've just shut up and done your time. +1 Combat -1 Leadership
[] The Poverty Breakout.
You don't know when, or how; but one day, you looked around at your family and their surroundings, and decided it was time to break the cycle.
Surviving in a rough neighbourhood gave you the skills necessary to navigate complex social hierarchies; sadly, your school district's standardized testing left you ill-equipped for the kinds of creative workarounds that mecha maintenance demands on a daily basis. +1 Leadership -1 Maintenance
Select your service branch. This will affect the unit culture you find yourself in, as well as the doctrine you employ in combat. Bonuses and maluses affect everybody on your side.
[] US Army.
The Army is solidly reliable, and can be counted on to have your back in a fight. Their mechas are well-rounded, and do not suffer from any particularly noticeable defects.
However, they are not really the most inspiring of the branches.
Preferred tactics: steady, incremental advances. +1 Combat -1 Leadership
[] US Marine Corps.
The Marines have a warrior culture that emphasizes seizing the initiative in combat. They are the very best at what they do, and serve as a proud example to others.
Unfortunately, all that extra performance exacts a heavy toll on their machines.
Preferred tactics: high-risk, high-reward rapid maneuvers. +2 Combat
+1 Leadership -3 Maintenance
[] US Air Force.
The Air Force's ranks include highly skilled technicians with experience in maintaining all sorts of cutting edge technology. Their pilots tend to profess a personal affinity with their machines, which earns them a lot of weird looks, but also a deeper awareness of their mechas' flaws and features.
However, their reputation as a chair force and a perceived aloofness from the battlefield mean that they struggle with getting others to follow their lead.
Preferred tactics: stand-off precision attacks. +2 Maintenance -1 Combat
-1 Leadership
Combat represents your ability to survive and win engagements against a determined foe, and to persevere in dire situations.
This broadly encompasses such varying skill sets as reflexes in close combat, personal marksmanship, and identifying weak points to exploit in your enemies… or your friends, if necessary.
A higher Combat stat will directly lead to improved outcomes in combat situations.
Maintenance represents your ability to keep machinery running in peak condition.
All mechas demand an exorbitant amount of attention just to remain functional, and this only worsens whenever they actually enter combat.
Failure to properly maintain your mecha will result in increasingly adverse events, often at the worst possible time.
Leadership represents your ability to inspire and get the best out of people around you.
This can apply not only to leading a unit yourself, but also to supporting other leaders in their duties, as well as rallying your comrades in dire situations.
Too little, or too much, leadership in one room can lead to a clash of egos and a breakdown of command.
Pilot name: Ricky Eagle Buster Johnson III (sigh).
Personal background: Unguided Genius.
Service branch: US Air Force.
Final stat distribution: +3 Maintenance, -2 Combat, -1 Leadership.
Okay, that took a lot longer than I expected. In the future I shouldn't stay up so late to write like this.
----------
Separatist rebels have overrun government forces in the embattled Donbass region of eastern Ukraine, putting them on a course to recapture the critical port city of Mariupol after a gruelling two week battle.
The defeat constitutes yet another setback for the Ukrainian Armed Forces, which first launched the current phase of its "Anti-Terrorist Operation" into the rebel-held regions almost four months ago. While Ukrainian President Petro Poroshenko pledged that the operation would "bring about a decisive outcome to end the war and bring peace to a united and free Ukraine", repeated defeats in the field have left Kiev no better off than when it started.
Observers in the region have attributed the unexpected turnaround in fortunes to the presence of unmarked Russian-built Cy-27 mechas fighting alongside separatist forces. First built for the Soviet Army in 1985, they were exported only in limited numbers after the fall of the Soviet Union, and are currently only known to be in service in the Russian Ground Forces.
Separatist leaders have denied that the presence of mechas constitutes a violation of the Minsk II accords, which were signed in 2015 by representatives of Russia, Ukraine, and the two separatist republics. "The Minsk agreements only prohibit the deployment of tanks and heavy artillery," an unnamed spokesman for the Donestk People's Republic said. "Mechas are not tanks or heavy artillery, and so there is no restriction on their use."
Russia denied that any of its mechas were present in Ukraine at all. "This is clearly the work of local hobbyists with a deep fondness for Soviet military equipment," President Vladimir Putin said in a statement to the press. "One ought to commend them for their keen enthusiasm and fine attention to detail."
----------
The woman sitting behind an austere plastic table in an equally drab concrete room is far too young to be a lieutenant colonel. For one thing, all the colonels in movies are supposed to be crusty middle-aged men who fear a desk job and retirement more than the enemy, likely played by Bruce Willis or George Clooney. For another, US Air Force regulations clearly state that attaining O-5 rank requires at least sixteen years of service, and three in grade, just to get in front of the promotion board. You're not too good with ages a lot of the time, but with her olive skin and shiny dark hair tied back in a ponytail, you seriously doubt she's a day over thirty.
But Lt Col Maria Marquez has the silver acorn on her lapel, and all you have is a lousy butter bar. So you shut up and stand to attention like a good soldier.
"Ma'am, Second Lieutenant Johnson reports as ordered!"
"At ease, Lieutenant." Marquez gestures you to take a seat. It's a rigid plastic chair that somehow manages to be even less comfortable than the one you just spent twenty-four hours seated in on the plane ride here.
She flips through a print-out of your service record, the time-honoured ritual whenever you meet a new superior officer. It's not very long, so the same few pages end up being flipped over and over again. Some of the contents are a little embarrassing, and you just know that she's going to ask you about them.
You really hope she isn't going to ask you about your name.
"This is the first time you've been deployed overseas," Marquez states. "How do you feel about that?"
You can't tell if she's fishing for the truth, or the correct answer. "A little nervous, but also kind of excited, ma'am," you reply. "New experiences have that effect on me."
"Yes, I would expect so." She flips a page. "You scored over fourteen-fifty on the SAT, but when you entered college your GPA dropped like a rock. From three-point-nine all the way to two-point-eight. What would you say was the cause of this decline?"
Ah, so she's diving right down into it. Fortunately, you have your well-rehearsed answer on hand. "Well, ma'am, I'd say it was the abrupt transition from a highly structured environment to a less structured one. I work much better with a clear goal and means to achieve it."
"Is that right, Lieutenant?" She takes a pen and marks the print-out with something you can't read from this angle. "You'll be relieved to know that under my command there'll be plenty of structure. We run a tight ship here at H-3."
"Yes, ma'am."
She flips a page. "Let's talk about how your training at Laughlin went. I see you passed all your individual simulations with flying colours. You scored well on theory. But you nearly flunked your assault courses and scored poorly on teamwork. What do you think this tells me about your ability to serve as an Air Force pilot?"
You really hate this question; you can never quite manage to stick the delivery. "Uh… it shows that I'm a competent and dependable pilot who's well aware of his specialization and weaknesses. I can come up with a thorough plan that leaves no room for error. As a pilot, I know I will win because I will be better prepared than my enemy, regardless of the battlefield. Ma'am."
"Hmm." Marquez spends several minutes tapping the end of her pen against the print-out, scrutinizing you with that critical eye all officers possess. You do your best to stand up to her gaze, knowing the next few moments could make or break this posting.
"I'll accept that answer," she eventually replies, ticking a few boxes on the paper. "But I should warn you to be prepared to back it up. Otherwise…"
"Understood, ma'am." That could've gone a lot worse.
"One last thing," she says, and you can sense the end of this meeting in the shift of her tone. "Is it true that you were caught reprogramming the simulator at Randolph to enact scenes from Julius Caesar?"
"Yes, ma'am."
You expect her to ask how you did it, or why; but instead she just nods and scribbles something in her notes. "Very well. Acquaint yourself with your mecha and your unit. I expect an exemplary performance from you in the coming months. Dismissed, Lieutenant."
You stand, salute, and march out of the lieutenant colonel's office, only letting yourself breathe once you'd made it outside.
She didn't ask you about your name.
Thank fucking Christ.
----------
Even after flying halfway across the globe to this exotic foreign location, the atmosphere of the hangar is exactly the same as the ones you trained in back in the States. Escorted once again by Corporal Ross, as soon as you enter you find yourself immersed in all the sights and sounds of mechas undergoing thorough maintenance. The growl of hydraulic motors being exercised, the electric whirring of tiny platform elevators ferrying techs up and down various catwalks, the deeply pungent odour of machine oil being spilled, the gentle harmony of airmen and pilots swearing loudly at each other…
Yep, it's just like home.
Twin rows of titanium alloy colossi line the hangar's walls, the bulk of their slumbering forms serving to restore some of the anticipation and excitement you felt earlier, as Ross drives you down the centre of the hangar in a skeletal buggy. There's space for some thirty of the machines, enough for four squadrons to fit in here plus change. Yours is near the far end.
And at long last you find yourself standing at the foot of your very own personal mecha, the steed that will loyally serve you for the next nine months of your deployment… or a sleeping god whose terrible powers you hope to awaken in a semi-controlled manner. It can be hard to tell sometimes.
Thankfully, contrary to Corporal Ross's earlier insinuation, your mecha has been spared the ignominious fate of lying sprawled out on the scrubland, waiting to be picked over for spare parts by circling vulture engineers.
The Q-35 Rapid Surface Strike Vehicle is the latest and greatest war machine to emerge from the tortured and labyrinthine depths of American military procurement. The fact that it's technically still in low-rate initial production hasn't prevented it being deployed to warzones all around the world, its titanic stature symbolic of your country's unwavering commitment to freedom and democracy. In addition to the $3 million sword magnetically clamped on its back, it comes standard-equipped with a 30mm assault rifle that's perhaps better classified as an autocannon. With its glistening black barrel shroud extending nearly four metres long, it's optimized for long distance shots at the expense of platform stability. Just the way the Air Force likes it.
That's not the only optimization made to your mecha, of course. This particular Q-35 is carefully customized to your needs, so that you'll be able to properly fulfil the role your new squadron demands of you. But what is that role?
[] Rifleman.
A generalist, jack-of-all-trades role, which mainly exists to round out the capabilities of more specialist members of the squadron. In lieu of any special equipment, your Q-35 is able to haul significantly more 30mm magazines to the battlefield. You can also deploy with a massive ballistic shield in situations that warrant it, boosting your ability to hold the line.
The price of not being particularly good at anything is not being particularly good at anything.
Most effective against infantry.
[] Pointman.
A reconnaissance-based role, in which your Q-35 will always be ahead of the squadron and operating in unknown territory. To facilitate this, your engines and radar have been swapped out for more powerful models, while your servos receive top priority during maintenance cycles.
Your mecha is fast and light, with greater capability in close-quarters combat than peer models. However, its performance suffers against larger numbers of opponents and in longer-range engagements.
Most effective against mechas.
[] Grenadier.
A heavy weapons and area denial role, with the Q-35's signature maneuverability being sacrificed for even greater firepower. Your mecha is outfitted with a wide assortment of rocket pods, anti-tank missiles, canister rounds, and smoke grenade launchers that will make mincemeat of any massed opposition.
The only problem with this is that your mecha is really slow and heavy, less able to adapt to evolving situations. Inertia is a real drag.
Most effective against vehicles.
[] Sharpshooter.
A battlefield control and overwatch role, this variation of the Q-35 spends most of its time in the air, which is made possible by a greatly extended fuel capacity. Whenever it does sight a high-value target off in the distance, the replacement of its standard assault cannon with a heavier 120mm tank gun allows it to strike instantly and brutally.
However, you will have to pay a heavy price for this power: you will be unable to equip a sword and will have no close-quarters ability whatsoever.
Most effective against tanks.
----------
The assault rifle is, of course, a supersized AR-15.
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.
----------
"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.
----------
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.
----------
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.
I'm slipping into my bad habits again. Please stop me. Snowfire: No :V
----------
NORTH KOREAN ROCKET PUTS TENTH SATELLITE INTO ORBIT, VIOLATES UN SANCTIONS AGAIN
North Korea announced the successful launch of its Kwangmyongsong-17 satellite, the tenth such object to be launched into orbit by the isolated hermit kingdom in violation of UN sanctions.
The launch was immediately condemned by the international community, while the UN Security Council called an emergency meeting to discuss the imposition of even harsher sanctions on North Korea.
"It's very concerning that North Korea continues to behave in an irresponsible manner, with complete disregard for international norms," US Ambassador to the UN Nikki Haley told reporters. "The United States and its allies will be pursuing significant measures to hold them to account."
China, which is North Korea's main benefactor but also South Korea's biggest trading partner, has expressed concern over the launch and urged all sides to act cautiously to prevent escalation. Russia, another key ally, also issued a rebuke of the launch, calling it a "needlessly provocative action" that could trigger an arms race in the Korean peninsula.
North Korea's continued launching of satellites is speculated to be an attempted show of strength in the face of increasing US deployments of mechas to the Korean peninsula. The US escalated its commitment in response to last year's nuclear tests, which North Korea claimed were of a hydrogen bomb that could act as a missile payload.
Senior Pentagon officials have reiterated concerns that North Korea's growing space program represents an increasing capacity to recklessly deploy anti-satellite (ASAT) or electromagnetic pulse (EMP) weapons into orbit. In an age where low Earth orbit is so densely packed with satellites of all descriptions, even a genuine accident on the North Koreans' part could have a devastating impact on the world's ability to access space, potentially setting back orbital development efforts by generations.
In response to the satellite launch, US President Donald Trump tweeted, "Little Rocket Man might be feeling pleased with the size of his constellation right now – but mine is still bigger!"
----------
"Anything yet?"
"Nope." The reply comes from a Marine slouching in his turret, peering at the horizon with a pair of binoculars. "Tanks are still a couple miles out."
"And chair force is still getting out of bed," another Marine adds, wiggling suggestively in his seat as he fiddles with the dashboard radio.
"This sucks," the questioner declares from the driver's seat. "Why do we have to wait around for the chair force anyway? Why can't we just call in our own mechas to handle this?"
"You know why," the radioman says. "They're all in Okinawa, having ballroom dances with Japan's finest. Oh yeah, torque it baby."
"So we're out here sweating our balls off without lube for our fifties, but some pussies sitting on a beach sipping pina colada and spearing fish get to have giant robots. I swear this country's getting more and more fucked up all the time."
"The one you're serving, or the one you're getting shot at in right now?"
"Yes!"
"Y'know, I hear the giant robots cost a hundred grand an hour to run," the turret gunner interjects.
"Are you sure?" the radioman frowns. "I thought it was more like half a mil."
"Whatever. Point is, it's all just a scam to give trillions of dollars to LockMart so those things don't fall over when someone jacks off on them. And we're the ones footing the bill."
"Wow, dude, you're saying that like it's fucking news or something," the driver snarks. "Have you, like, been living under a fucking rock with your head up your ass or what?"
"I heard the pilots are all kids," the radioman adds his own gossip to the conversation. "Like, teenagers with pimples and shit. Something to do with brains developing at that age."
"Well, that explains why we don't get any mechas," the driver snickers. "Marines don't have any brains to develop."
"Speak for yourself, you inbred fucking retard."
"Hey, look!" The gunner points skyward. "That's them coming in now, five o'clock."
Everyone else peers out their windows to look, seeing a veritable meteor storm hurtling down from the sky, rocket plumes blinding as they burn to cushion the mechas' fall.
"Woo! Go chair force!" the driver whoops. "Go get some for ol' George here!"
The radioman frowns. "Aren't they landing a bit close? Check that angle."
"I don't see JESUS CHRIST GET DOWN–"
----------
You let out a horrified yelp and slam on the throttle hard, diverting the Q-35A's rocket exhaust away from the Humvee at the last moment. Alerts shriek in your helmet as you struggle desperately to keep your mecha upright, its balance thoroughly disturbed by the abrupt maneuver you pulled.
Eventually the mecha's posture comes under control, and you manage to bring it in on a low sweeping trajectory that somewhat resembles a negative logarithmic curve. It even touches down on the sand-blasted expanse of the Syrian Desert without ploughing more than a metre or so of dirt – although the feedback that reverberates up from the legs into the cockpit makes you somewhat concerned.
You heave a massive sigh of relief as the danger passes, but it doesn't last. Ramifications start sprinting through your brain. Your career flashes before your eyes, the candle that burnt twice as bright having burned half as long. Images of court-martials, a dishonourable discharge, and having to come home to your disappointed parents follow swiftly. What would Ricky Eagle Buster Johnson II think?
What would Ricky Eagle Buster Johnson I think?
A transmission comes in from the assistant squadron leader. "Queen Six, Queen Two; your mecha's gone four klicks off-target. Is there a problem? Over."
"I uh, no, there's no problem," you stammer. "Unexpected obstacle in the landing zone, over."
"Roger." The smooth, steady voice on the radio gives nothing away. "Form up and proceed as planned. Out."
Taking some deep breaths, you close your eyes and submerge again into the icy focus of operating the Q-35A in all its bipedal glory. Near-fratricide or not, there's still a sortie to fly. Your first sortie in combat with the enemy. Concerns of collateral damage can wait until after you've won.
You just hope whoever those friendly troops were don't pass a report of attempted blue-on-blue up the chain.
The terrain you're standing on isn't really conducive to a long run-up, so you perform a standing hop and fire your thrusters at half-burn for a few seconds. It's much less fuel-efficient, but it gets you to the designated coordinates without wasting too much time trudging over the ground in between.
"Nice flameout there, Buster," 2nd Lt Hansen sneers over the radio when you approach. "They teach you that in flight school?"
"I kinda wish you didn't realize until it was too late," 2nd Lt Buck chuckles. "Never seen a Humvee get toasted before. That would've been fuckin' cool."
"I would've liked that," 2nd Lt Clarke agrees, her voice noticeably raised from the dull monotone you heard earlier.
You stoically absorb your wingmen's mockery, knowing there's nothing you can say to dissuade them.
"Friendly fire is no laughing matter, boys and girls," Capt Tanner cuts in sternly. "Now look alive. The enemy knows we're here now."
Your radar pings as if in confirmation, and you look over to see that the two promised companies of Syrian T-62s are indeed present on the battlefield. You've landed about eight kilometres away from them – about half of your combined horizons – so neither of you are in range to start firing. And a few kilometres the rear, you can just make out the US base at al-Tanf you're tasked with protecting.
You frown. This spot seems to be a lot closer to the base than it appeared on the map.
The T-62s – you count twenty-seven in total – remain still for a few moments; then they split apart into their constituent companies, one driving west, the other to the east.
"Not a bad choice, for hajis," Hansen admits with grudging respect.
"They do realize we can boost jump a lot faster than they could possibly drive, right?" Buck says. "What do they think that's gonna achieve?"
"Don't let your guard down," Tanner reproaches. "They're still a dangerous enemy and should be treated with respect."
The tension in the air turns somewhat awkward as you wait for the Syrians to close into firing range. Even maneuvering at combat speed, it takes nearly ten minutes before they finally get close enough to have a decent chance at hitting them. You pass the time by checking and rechecking your readouts, flicking away the occasional error message, and wondering what those soldiers in the Humvee are up to.
Finally, the range markers on the lead T-62M drop from red into amber. You raise your anti-tank sniper rifle to your shoulder; or, rather, your mecha does. It's the progeny of an unholy union between BAE Systems and Rheinmetall, boasting a seven-metre barrel and fifteen-round magazines.
Some of your sniper training takes hold and has you instinctively exhale, even though it makes absolutely no difference to the Q-35A's stability as a firing platform. Where man wavers, machines stand firm.
And right now, you are the machine.
Target in the centre, pull the switch.
The armour-piercing fin-stabilized discarding-sabot round leaps from the barrel, crosses the intervening distance, and passes several metres above your target.
You curse in annoyance. Three arcseconds too high. Part of you realizes that you were almost looking forward to seeing what would happen when it hit.
"Hmph," Clarke transmits. "All that length and you can't even hit the pussy."
"Yeah, I can see you're really bringing those eagle eyes to the party," Buck adds.
"Shut up," you mutter, too embarrassed to come up with anything wittier.
"Queens Three and Five, observe radio discipline, over," Taylor reprimands them.
"Yes, mom. Over."
From the right flank of your formation, Taylor fires. Her shot is, at least, more accurate than yours: the kinetic energy penetrator does actually strike her target T-62's cast steel turret, only to skitter off its curved surface. "No effect, target remains, over," she reports dutifully.
"Gay," Hansen declares. "We're not gonna be able to do shit from this distance. Coach, request permission to close with the enemy."
"Denied," Tanner answers. "Stay in position and keep us covered from forward threats."
"…Roger."
A couple of the T-62s start firing their main guns at you. They're not very accurate, the 115mm shells kicking up clouds of dirt dozens of metres away. Even though you're technically in their effective range, the SAA's tankers aren't skilled enough to hit you at this distance.
You don't give them the chance to get closer for a better shot. Everyone activates their rocket thrusters and leaps to one side, the squadron splitting into two flights. As you hit the apex of your arc, you centre the nearest enemy in your crosshairs, and fire again.
This time, lightning flashes from the heavens to strike the T-62M's top armour; and the machine, built by men to wage their petty wars, explodes in a divine conflagration.
"Target destroyed," you report, feeling a rush of exhilaration flow through your brain.
"Good work, Eagle Buster," Tanner commends you. He's one of the other two pilots in your flight, having boost-jumped to the left with you. "Stay mobile, keep your distance, and don't let up."
It's far from the first time you've been called that name, but the captain saying it seems to take on new meaning. "Understood, Queen One."
"This is fucking retarded," Hansen grumbles, firing a burst from his assault rifle at a T-62K. The 30mm rounds that do hit manage to shred the antenna and externally-mounted machine guns, but otherwise fail to penetrate. "Why do Buster and Drop Mom get to have all the fun?"
The exhilaration is promptly replaced by exasperation.
White smoke belatedly starts to spew from the exhaust of various T-62s, something they really should've been doing from the start to cover their approach. Nevertheless, as their advance halts and they withdraw behind the cover of the smoke cloud, your visual and infrared sensors are suddenly rather impaired.
Your radar can still penetrate it just fine, but it only shows relative positions – you can't tell if you're aiming at the front, or at the side. It makes a lot more difference than you expect: without reliable targeting data, you find that quite a few tanks you thought killed survive to emerge from the smoke cloud and take some potshots. Some of them even come close, forcing you to regularly boost-jump to keep the enemy tankers from getting a lock on you.
"Coach," Hansen begins, "this would go a lot better if we closed in and–"
"I said denied, White Knight," Tanner snaps. "Continue to maintain distance and cover us."
"Queen Five, why aren't you firing your heavy weapons?" you overhear Taylor demand on the radio.
"Well, Drop Mom, it appears that this machine's fifty million dollar, gold-plated, DoD-certified targeting system has officially shit itself again," Buck replies, voice laden with sarcasm. "So unless you want me to kill a lot of sand, there's not much I can do here."
"Use the Force, Skywalker!" Hansen laughs.
"Fuck off!"
The battle soon degenerates into both sides trading shots with each other. While Tanner and Hansen lay down suppressive fire with their 30mms, you fly up, aim down at what you hope is a T-62's top armour, and take your best shot at it. Sometimes, you hit; more often, you miss.
Throughout it all, 2nd Lt Hansen repeatedly asks to be allowed to fly closer and hit the enemy tanks with his sword. Every time the captain shoots him down, you can just hear the undercurrent of frustration in his radio transmissions.
All the while, you keep one wary eye on your fuel gauges. Those boost-jumps are using up an incredible amount of fuel, and if this keeps up for too much longer, you might not have enough left to make the flight home.
At long last, after what feels like an eternity of this, you see the smoke dissipating and what remains of the SAA's armoured companies driving away into the sunset, their red dots receding from your radar. Evidently, their commander decided to call it quits while he's still above water.
"Mission complete," Captain Tanner declares. "They won't be trying that again anytime soon, I can guarantee that. All Queens, form up and return to base."
It's over. You've survived your first engagement with the enemy.
And yet, for some reason, you can't help but feel really disappointed.
End of Episode 1
----------
Select one outcome which does not occur. This is a meta-vote.
EDIT: Since there has been confusion over the use of double-negatives (my bad, sorry), I will clarify that you are voting for one bad thing to happen.
[] None of the US mechas took any notable damage during the engagement. This is a vote for the US mechas to take damage.
[] The SAA forces did not retreat in reasonably good order. This is a vote for the SAA forces to escape.
[] The refugee camp at Rubkan was not struck by collateral damage. This is a vote for collateral damage to occur.
[] The US Air Force was not embarrassed on international social media. This is a vote for the USAF to be embarrassed.
----------
Some of you may recognize this style of vote from a certain prominent mecha quest on this forum. And if you don't, I recommend you to go read Petals of Titanium. Seriously, it's amazing.
The US forces took no damage during the engagement.
AKA: The US forces took damage during the engagement. >_<
So I'd planned to have this update done about 4 days ago, but a sudden rush of dinner parties and starting a (sort of) new job utterly derailed things.
I'm now way behind schedule for this thing. No idea how I'm gonna make up the gap. Oh well, just gotta press on and see what comes of this.
----------
JAPAN TO DEPLOY MECHAS TO INDO-PACIFIC AMID RISING CONTROVERSY
Japan's newly commissioned multi-purpose operations destroyer JS Kaga is being deployed to the Indo-Pacific region with a full complement of Type-16 mechas, the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force said in a statement this week.
The deployment comes at a time of mounting tensions in the region, as China continues to claim ownership of the South China Sea, where it is constructing a series of airstrips on reclaimed land. Analysts believe that these airstrips could be used to support mecha deployments by the People's Liberation Army.
China's foreign ministry issued a statement criticizing the deployment, saying it was "a destabilizing move that threatens to upset the existing peace between neighbours".
Japan's domestic mecha program has been deeply controversial at home, with its critics arguing that mechas violate Article 9 of the Japanese Constitution, which forbids Japan from possessing offensive military weapons. Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, an outspoken supporter of the program, has been accused by political opponents of attempting to re-militarize the country.
The JMSDF continues to insist that the mechas carried on board JS Kaga are not in fact machines designed for combat, but rather "humanitarian reconstruction vehicles". "As you can see, these rear mounts are designed to allow the machine to carry I-beams," an anonymous spokesman described a scale model of the Type-16 at a press conference. "And these handheld tools it carries are rivet guns, to rivet the I-beams together. Thirty millimetre rivet guns."
----------
"Good morning, Lieutenant Johnson."
"Good morning to you too, Doctor," you answer, shaking his hand.
Major Adrian Syme is one of those individuals who got commissioned straight into the hallowed ranks of officerdom on the basis of his rare and valuable skills as a civilian. A tall, slender man with sculpted features, he has glossy black hair with far too much gel in it – you wonder idly how he manages to get a hold of it, considering how remote and secure a location H-3 Air Base is – and an exquisitely trimmed five o'clock shadow.
"Let's get right down to it," he says cheerfully, the two of you sitting in seats opposite each other – both of which, you note, have cushions. "How are you feeling today?"
"Okay, I guess?" You shrug. "Someone stole my toothbrush so I had to go find another one, and people kept making artillery sounds at breakfast; apart from that, today's been alright so far."
"Any headaches? Sudden uncontrollable chills? Feelings of existential dread?"
"Not right now, no."
"Good, good." He scribbles something down on a sheaf of paper attached to a clipboard, as medical personnel are wont to do. "Put this on, please."
You sigh and obligingly slip the object he hands you over your head. It's essentially the scientific edition of the flight helmet you wear into battle; not having to worry about being ruggedized, it's less of a sleek bubble and more of a footballer's cage, little more than a framework that's crammed to the brim with all manner of instruments that record more about your brainwaves than you ever wanted to know.
"How are you under there?"
"It's fine." You can't actually see out from under the brim, and Syme's voice takes on a weird reverberating effect. "Let's get this over with."
"Okay." You can hear more scribbling. "Reaction time is a factor in this, so please pay attention."
"I know," you mumble, having heard this preamble far too many times to count.
"Just making sure. Now, answer as quickly as you can." There's a sound of paper being flipped through. "What is your Air Force Specialty Code?"
"18QX Rapid Surface Strike Pilot."
"What is the capital of Azerbaijan?"
"…Baka?"
"What did the lion say to his cubs on the sidewalk?"
"Don't go until you see the zebra crossing."
"Why did the United States develop QM technology?"
"To one-up the Soviets."
"Describe your last sexual encounter."
"I plead the fifth."
"Your entire squadron, save you, is tied to a railroad, with a train about to hit them. You can pull a lever to divert it, but it will hit your entire hangar crew instead. What do you do?"
"I roll to disbelieve, because trolley problems don't exist in real life."
"Complete the sentence: in the grim dark future of the forty-first millennium…"
"Congress votes to raise the debt ceiling."
"If you're pregnant with an identical copy of yourself, and you abort it, does it count as suicide?"
"That would be biologically difficult."
"Name three of Hitler's top men."
"Goering, Goebbels, and, uh, Fegelein?"
"Die."
"I roll a twenty! Critical hit!"
"What's the strangest food you've ever eaten?"
"Well, my uncle does this really weird black pudding…"
"In Soviet Russia…"
"Mecha pilots you!"
"Eenie meenie miney moe."
"Catch a snail with your toe."
"What is the meaning of life?"
"To suffer."
"What do you call it when somebody with an annual income of fifty thousand dollars borrows five million dollars?"
"Subprime mortgage crisis."
"Favourite Schwarzenegger movie?"
"Predator."
"Okay, you can take off the helmet now." To your credit, you don't hesitate, unclipping it and setting it aside. "Good news, Lieutenant. Your QM aptitude is at a healthy sixty-two percent. A whole one percentage point over your last score."
"Yay?" To be totally honest, you don't really know what the percentages actually mean. Sometimes they go up and sometimes they go down, but as far as you can tell they don't seem to have any meaningful effect on your ability to pilot. Not that you have a very big sample size to draw on.
"Yay indeed, Lieutenant. Yay indeed." Syme ticks off a few last boxes on his clipboard. "That's it for today's check-up. Keep up with your exercise regimen and make sure you get plenty of sleep. Do you have any questions for me before you go?"
"Yeah," you pipe up, your cheeky streak choosing this moment to flare up, "why aren't you a hot female scientist like in all the movies?"
The major chuckles. "For exactly the reason you're intimating right now, Lieutenant. Good day."
You stand, shake his hand again, and exit the room.
----------
As you're leaving the examination room, you almost collide with somebody standing in front of the doorway, only just managing to pull back at the last moment.
"Oh!" It takes you a moment to remember your fellow pilot's name. "Sorry, uh, Clarke, I didn't see you standing there."
"Mm," she replies laconically, making no effort to move aside so that you can actually leave. She's doing that weird mixed posture thing again, slouching with her hands in her pockets, but she's so close that the effect is for her face to be merely centimetres from yours. It's rather invasive of your personal space, but there's something about her green eyes you find starkly fascinating.
"Um…" you venture as the silence stretches awkwardly, "is there something I can help you with?"
"Not yet," she says with a strange lilt. It's not technically a staring contest, since both of you are blinking; but nonetheless, you can't help but feel this is some sort of evaluation. Or hazing, which from a certain point of view is the same thing. But you expect hazing would be more obviously unpleasant. This is just weird.
"Well, uh," you begin to fidget under Clarke's stare, "if there isn't anything, I'm gonna just, go now. There's, uh, maintenance and stuff. That I've gotta do. Y'know?"
"Mm-hmm." Her right hand leaves its pocket and brushes a lock of golden hair from her face, but she doesn't move. "Ta ta, then."
"Um, bye!" With a surge of courage, you brush past and double-time – not running, that would be unseemly – down the hallway and around the corner away from 2nd Lt Clarke.
Seriously, what was that?
----------
The incident is still nagging at you when you arrive at the hangar, hitching a buggy ride with some random airmen to reach the spot you were at yesterday.
A few engineers are already clambering all over your Q-35A when you get there, taking notes on clipboards and tut-tutting disapprovingly at what they find. Their supervisor, a staff sergeant by the name of Miles Perrier, hops off to greet you.
"So, what can I do for you, chief?" you ask politely after the introductions are done. As much of a butterbar as you might be, even you know full well the importance of keeping on good terms with senior enlisted. Especially when those same enlisted are responsible for the continued ability of your fighting machine to generate miracles.
"There's a few items I wanted to go over with you before we get started," Perrier replies with that understated tone you've come to recognize from engineers. You've even used it yourself from time to time. "First of all, how much did you actually boost-jump during your last sortie?"
"…A lot?" you answer, already knowing where this is going.
"Yes, I could tell." It seems that almost everyone on this base has a penchant for writing on clipboards while they're talking. "I'm sure you're well-aware of this, but a standing boost-jump adds nearly as much wear and tear on the joints as four running jumps using the same amount of fuel. It's lucky you got back to base when you did; any more jumps, and your knees would have blown out from under you on the runway. Again."
"That bad?"
"Yes. And while we're on the topic of using your rocket thrusters, just what the hell did you do to them to mess them up so badly? It looks like a toasted bagel in there, with lots of cream and sugar melted on top. Seriously, what did you do?"
"Well…" You're rather reluctant to disclose any details related to your close brush with fratricide, the knowledge of which thankfully doesn't seem to have proliferated beyond your squadron. That hasn't stopped them from teasing you mercilessly about it. "There was an unexpected obstacle in my landing zone, so I had to perform emergency evasion. That shouldn't have been a problem, right?"
"Not normally, no." Perrier consults some notes. "But when you do it on the tail end of a cruise and suddenly go from a soft landing to a full burn, it tends to really mess up the casing. Like I said: bagel."
"…Would it have been better if I didn't evade the obstacle?"
"If that was the case, you wouldn't have been able to fire twenty-eight shots from your anti-tank rifle. And yes, I went and counted them, just to be sure. Now, I understand that combat can be a very chaotic affair, and that the pieces often don't line up the way we want them to. But I don't suppose there's any way you could possibly avoid firing your main weapon as often? I'm sure you can appreciate how difficult it is to clean a seven metre-long barrel."
"You want me to use my gun less?" You look pointedly over at your Q-35A and its lack of any secondary armament. "On a sharpshooter variant?"
"If it helps, think of them less as bullets and more as tickets for an hour spent swabbing the barrel with a ramrod. Each."
"…I'll do my best," you commit half-heartedly. "But can I ask you something? What's the deal with the fire control and sensors on this thing? I wouldn't have had to shoot so much if I could actually, y'know, hit something."
"Oh, those?" Perrier waves a hand. "We're still waiting for Northrop to send us a patch for those. Thermals and radar have been broken since 34.0.7b. You're just gonna have to live with it in the meantime."
"I… see." There's a brief silence while you stew on that. Surely you can do better than just wait around for some defense contractor to get around to fixing your war machine? Your name isn't Ricky Eagle Buster Johnson III for nothing, after all.
The distinct loudness of vociferous swearing carries over from somewhere close by, and you glance over to witness 2nd Lt Hansen laying it hard into his hangar crew. You're not sure who you pity more: the enlisted airmen, for all the abuse they're putting up with; or Hansen, for how poorly maintained his Q-35A is going to be. Or you, because he'll be accompanying you into battle in that condition.
"Now, unfortunately, with all the damage your friends took in that last sortie, it might be a while before we can get around to yours." The chief engineer flashes you a winning smile. "Hope you remember your way around a spanner, LT."
----------
You'll be spending the next month or so performing essential maintenance on your war machine. Your selected character traits have spared you any significant damage, but the other members of your squadron aren't so lucky.
Since you'll have a (relatively) decent amount of free time available, you might as well use it to better acquaint yourself with your fellow pilots. But whom?
Select three. Votes will be tallied by line.
[] Challenge Patrick Hansen to a simulator duel.
[] Assist Richard Buck in debugging his targeting system.
[] Probe the mysteries of Antonia Clarke's mind.
[] Receive additional sharpshooter training from Robin Taylor.
[] Volunteer to assist Edward Tanner with his paperwork.
----------
I was going to include a Brexit joke in this update, but at the time this quest takes place, Brexit hadn't been extended yet.
Last edited:
EPISODE 2.2 - Everything is hard, until somebody makes it easy
Assist Richard Buck in debugging his targeting system.
Probe the mysteries of Antonia Clarke's mind.
Receive additional sharpshooter training from Robin Taylor.
This update got way too long. In hindsight, I really should've restricted the vote to two socials.
Also all controversial views expressed by characters are the views of the characters alone, absolutely nothing to do with what the author thinks, etc.
----------
MUSK UNVEILS NEW AND IMPROVED LUNAR LOADER, SMOKES AUDIENCE
SpaceX founder and CEO Elon Musk has unveiled a new prototype of his much-vaunted Lunar Loader mecha, which he says will be used to support the construction of colonies on the Moon sometime in the 2020s.
The Lunar Loader, which bears more than a close resemblance to the famous "power loader" piloted by Ellen Ripley in the climax of Ridley Scott's 1979 film Alien, made its appearance at one of Musk's signature promotional events in Los Angeles. Operated by SpaceX test pilot Tony Mustafa, it demonstrated the ability to lift Musk's personal car, a 2008 Tesla Roadster, which weighs nearly 1,300 kg. According to Musk, the reduced gravity on the Moon would let the Lunar Loader lift loads "over six times that amount".
Amongst the innovations touted by Musk was a new lithium-ion battery developed by sister company Tesla, which he claimed would allow for one hundred hours of sustained operations at full capacity. He also said that a redesign of the Lunar Loader's QM chip configuration would allow pilots to remain at "peak performance" during that time, but declined to share details on the new configuration.
Unlike mechas built for military purposes, which employ a spherical array of QM chips that fully surrounds the pilot, the few models currently available or being developed for the civilian market are limited to a small number of QM chips, typically positioned in a "cross" formation across the cockpit's diagonals. While this is a necessary concession to affordability, it also means a commensurate reduction in the mecha's responsiveness, and therefore performance.
The audience received an unexpected blast from the future when Musk demonstrated the Lunar Loader's ability to maneuver in space by test-firing its rocket thrusters on stage. Several attendees were reportedly hospitalized as a result of breathing in the resulting fumes. SpaceX could not be reached for comment on this matter.
----------
You stretch and yawn, standing up from your inactive gel seat and clambering out of the cockpit. While you very much prefer the slightly eerie solitude inside the QM sphere to the chaotic discord of the hangar when it comes to performing these sorts of cognitively demanding tasks, it gets a bit unsettling in there after a while. Besides, it's bad practice to take breaks where you work, and you could really go for some coffee right now.
Standing on a catwalk that runs behind the mecha's shoulder blades, where the cockpit main access hatch is located, you're able to lean over the railing and see how everyone else is going. The sight makes you… somewhat optimistic.
Something makes a tink sound from the side of your mecha. As you blink in surprise, it happens again, and this time you catch the briefest glint of a tiny object bouncing off the Q-35A's titanium alloy frame and tumbling all the way down to the ground.
Then there's a mild impact on your shoulder, barely a tap through your Airman Battle Uniform; you probably wouldn't have noticed it at all if you weren't already on alert for it. Reflexively brushing it away, you turn to face the culprit.
A dozen metres away, 2nd Lt Antonia Clarke is perched atop her machine; lounging in a way that strikes you as incredibly precarious, given that you're both three storeys above ground level. Sitting on the camouflaged surface next to her is a little plastic box; as you watch, she picks something out of it and tosses it at you.
The glare of the floodlights prevents you from seeing it until it's too late, and you screw your eyes shut on instinct as something hard and metal strikes you on the forehead.
"Ow," you mutter, reaching down to pick it up. It's a zinc-coated carbon steel nut of the type that's utterly ubiquitous in a hangar. As you examine it, another one hits your neck and falls into your uniform collar, slipping awkwardly down your back.
"Hey!" you exclaim indignantly, trying to dislodge the nut from your uniform. "Cut that out, will you?"
Clarke raises an eyebrow, as if she's seriously considering your words. Then she throws another bolt at you. This one lands in your hair.
"Agh!" Belatedly, you take cover behind your mecha's bulky frame. "Seriously, stop it! What's the big idea?"
There's a lull in the throwing of nuts. Cautiously, you peer out from your shelter.
2nd Lt Clarke has vanished from the top of her mecha, taking the box of nuts with her. In its place is a cardboard sign duct-taped to the side. It reads FREE CANDY and features an arrow pointing in the direction of her main access hatch.
You stare disbelievingly at it, wondering what the meaning of this is.
This is so obviously a trap.
Yes, you've been known to have a bit of a sweet tooth, but you've been on the Internet, you know how this works.
There are so many other things you could be working on right now.
Your mecha isn't going to maintain itself.
You still haven't gone to get that coffee, you little go-getter, you.
There's absolutely no reason to indulge whatever your wingman has in mind.
You really shouldn't be doing this.
You're doing this.
The hatch is conveniently left open, allowing you to climb inside Clarke's machine with little trouble.
What instantly strikes you as your eyes adjust to the dimness is how unbelievably messy it is. You've seen what the frat bros in college could do to a room, but 2nd Lt Clarke has them beat on pure density. Every visible surface of her cockpit is covered in all manner of paperwork, chewed gum, loose wrappers, empty coffee cups, smoked cigarettes, lewd magazines, stains of indeterminate origin… It's a wonder that the QM chips can discern anything in all this chaos, and even more of a wonder that officers haven't reamed her out for enabling it.
Clarke pops out from behind her seat and flicks another nut at you, hitting your crotch.
"Gotcha," she says.
"Oh, no." You clutch at your heart and stagger dramatically. It doesn't work very well in the confined space. "Truly, I am slain."
"That's okay." There's a playful quality to Clarke's voice that's different to the laconic manner she displayed earlier. "I don't think you were using it much anyway."
That rankles a little more than it should. You're supposed to be more mature than this, in several ways. "W-what would you know?"
"Seventeen boyfriends," she states matter-of-factly. "And six abortions."
"You– I– what–" There's so much about that statement that confounds you, least of all the idea that anyone could have had seventeen boyfriends. Let alone by her age, which looks to be about the same as yours. "S-six abortions?!" you eventually splutter out.
"That's right." She looks inordinately pleased with herself.
It occurs to you that this is the first personal detail one of your fellow pilots has shared with you. You should probably do the polite thing and try to make conversation. You were ordered to acquaint yourself with your new unit, after all.
"So, uh," you fish for something to talk about, "what's it like? Getting an abortion, I mean."
"It's not so bad. A little suction and all of life's problems go away."
"I… see." Your mind conjures up a half-remembered story on the news the other week. "Aren't there usually, uh, lots of protestors and whatnot?"
"There are. It gets annoying sometimes. I think I'll go in my uniform next time. Then I can say killing babies is my job." She snickers at her own joke.
"Next time?" This is all a little too much for your poor, sheltered, innocent brain to take in right now.
"Sure. No reason to give up on a good thing." She's suddenly leaning over her seat, left hand snaking out to grab your collar and pull your face towards hers. "So, what do you say, Ricky? Wanna be number seven?"
"I, um, uh," your heart is racing, the air-conditioned cockpit feels hot and stifling, blood scrambles along your arteries in preparation for immediate take-off, "I don't– that is– I think I should go now!" you stammer, yanking free of her grasp and scrambling through the mercifully still-open hatch behind you.
"What a shame," Antonia remarks as you retreat. "And here I had all this free candy I was gonna give you."
----------
The next few times you're in the hangar, your movements are hurried and furtive, afraid that Antonia Clarke is going to pop out and dump a whole tub of nuts and bolts on your head or something. You wouldn't put it past her.
Thankfully, nothing of the sort happens. In fact, you barely see her at all over the weeks. She seems to be spending all of her time inside her mecha; doing what, who knows.
The lack of distraction is welcome, but the lack of any appreciable progress debugging your own Q-35A's fire control and sensor software is not. Even when you're engaged in more physical maintenance tasks alongside SSgt Perrier and his crew, your mind is always spinning through code, attempting to resolve the one true configuration that will magically make your radar and thermals work again. So far, your mind's resolution is about as sharp as your mecha's.
At a loss, you find yourself wandering over to 2nd Lt Buck's mecha. Seeking inspiration, or maybe just distraction, you're not sure.
Buck himself is working at a desk and chair set up on the catwalk; evidently, he prefers a more active working environment. He's chatting casually with one of the engineers as you approach, the two clearly on friendly terms. His fingers perform a waltz on a laptop that's so ruggedized it resembles a folding brick, which is currently plugged into his Q-35A with an extremely thick cable. You suspect the whole setup could survive a direct 30mm hit with little more than a few scorch marks.
"Hey, Buster," he greets when he notices your presence. He's wearing his aviators; not actually that bad of a choice, considering the glare from the floodlights.
"Hello, Lieutenant." The engineer, Staff Sergeant Hernandez, salutes, and you return it. "Richard, I'll go see how the armour replacement is coming along."
"Sure thing, Rosa." Buck waves her off, then resumes his typing. "So how's it going, Buster? Any luck getting that FCS to stop shitting itself yet?"
"Not really," you admit. "I was kinda hoping you might give some insights. I feel like you've been dealing with this longer than I have."
"Funny, because here I was hoping you'd bring some fresh perspective to the problem." He turns his laptop screen so you can see. "What does this look like to you?"
You start reading. "As players enter throne room, bas reliefs call out to them. Roll d20 against party's total Cryptotheology skill. If success, portal will open in 5 turns. Else, each player takes 1d4 SAN damage and…"
"Oh, hang on, those are my campaign notes." Buck alt-tabs to another window. "Right, this one. What do you think?"
You thought the long, tangled mess of spaghetti C code you'd been fiddling around with was bad. This was somehow worse. "So many gotos…"
"Yeah, I know, right? All those programmers who get paid big bucks to sit around and play WoW all day, and they couldn't be assed to write something that doesn't look and run like dogshit. Man, when I get out I wanna go work for Lockheed. It'd be like what I do now, except even closer to the source of retardation. I wanna see how close I can get before my brain turns into a big smelly mush from things man was not meant to know."
Truth be told, you haven't given a lot of thought to this topic. It's another one of those frightening life things you find it's much easier to quietly push back into the fridge for a while until it breaks out again.
"Right, where was I? The program that tells our robots how to shoot stuff – or, should I say, programs. You see, in the infinite wisdom of whichever generals happen to run the Pentagon's Integrated Acquisitions Technology and Logistics Life Cycle Management System, Lockheed subcontracted the targeting system to Northrop Grumman, Raytheon, and BAE Systems. All of them write their own code and all of them use different style guides. I guess since they were gonna build a giant robot for four different services, they thought that four different contractors were gonna just get into a circle, sing Kumbaya, and a working targeting system would just magically fucking descend from the heavens. 'And on the seventh day, God could not rest, because the software he wrote was really fucked up.'"
"That… explains a lot."
"Oh, it gets worse. When Northrop released 33.4.5g, they somehow managed to totally fuck up the –"
----------
"So… Cryptotheology skill?"
"Oh, you play? It's a homebrew I whipped up based on Delta Green. The campaign's all about saving the Internet by digging out the relics of a long-dead kitten civilization, 'cause if there's one thing ancient Egypt had in common with us, it's that they drew on walls and worshipped cats."
"Sounds kinda like Snow Crash," you observe.
"Yeah, maybe. But check this out –"
----------
"…Weren't we supposed to be working on your targeting system?"
"Nah, it's alright. I always wanted to kill a lot of sand. See, when I was a kid –"
----------
One day, you climb out of your mecha after another marathon debugging session to find 1st Lt Taylor standing right there on the catwalk.
"Oh! Hello, Lieutenant." You hastily salute.
"Good afternoon, Johnson." Her hair looks incredibly shiny today, but maybe it's just the floodlights. "Do you have a moment?"
"Sure." Internally, you brace yourself for an officer doing officer things. "What's up, ma'am?"
"I've been analysing the logs from our last sortie. It's my belief that the greatest factor affecting a mecha's performance is pilot skill, and I found yours sorely lacking. It's my assessment that your performance would benefit from immediate remedial sharpshooter training."
Ouch. That was pretty blunt. "Now, ma'am?"
"That's right. Was there something else you planned on doing?"
"Well–" The look she gives you quickly shuts you up. "No, not really, ma'am."
"Glad to hear it. Follow me, please."
A short elevator ride down and buggy ride later, you're standing behind the line of H-3 Air Base's modestly appointed firing range. It's mostly used by the Security Forces, but there are a few booths reserved for pilot use. The one you and Taylor are using is set up with a Barrett M107 anti-material rifle on a bipod, the closest equivalent to how your Q-35A's anti-tank rifle handles.
To tell the truth, you seriously hate doing this kind of sharpshooter training. It's not that you're necessarily bad at it – you probably wouldn't have been assigned a sharpshooter role if that was the case – but rather that it's the kind of inherently physical, dexterity-demanding activity that you've disdained ever since at least elementary. It's not that it's hard: it's that it's boring.
Also, you've heard that the muzzle brakes on these rifles can make your retinas fall off, which is kind of freaky when you stop to think about it.
"You're still too slow," Taylor chides at the end of another round of shooting at far-off targets in the scrubland. "You may be far enough from the enemy to have the luxury of picking and choosing your targets, but your wingmen don't have the luxury of waiting while you do so."
"Yes, ma'am." It's hard to avoid a little resentment creeping into your voice. You get it, you really do, but that doesn't make this any more enjoyable.
She gives you an appraising look. "We'll take a short break," she declares, reaching into her pack to retrieve something. It's a little plastic tub that doesn't contain nuts and bolts, but rather… a batch of cookies. "Would you like one?"
"Yes, please!" The prospect of sugar overrides all rationality.
Taylor hands you a cookie. You take a bite out of it.
"How is it?" she asks expectantly.
"It's actually pretty good," you reply, genuinely appreciative. "Kinda reminds me of the ones my mom used to make back home."
"Really? Where is home, Johnson?"
"New York State. Buffalo, to be exact. The place where Buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo."
"What's it like?"
"It's okay, I guess. Winter sucks. Every year people seem to forget how to drive as soon as a single snowflake touches the road somewhere. There's a lot of wrecks on the road."
"That sounds charming. I'm from Arkansas. It gets a bit hot in summer and a bit cold in winter. It's… not a very exciting place."
"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am."
"You didn't get to answer when I asked you before. What made you decide to join the military?"
"Well…" This isn't the sort of thing you should really disclose to a superior officer, but something about 1st Lt Taylor disarms you. "Honestly? I didn't really know what else to do. I finished high school and found myself in a world that wasn't the one I grew up in. I guess… this is the only thing I've really been able to do in life, so far."
Any other officer you know would've chewed you out for failing to demonstrate proper patriotism and pride in your chosen service, but Taylor just nods. "I understand. I was a little like that too, I suppose. For a while, I felt like I'd lost my purpose and there wasn't anything else for me in the world."
"But you're here now," you prompt, when you see her starting to reminisce a little too much.
"Yes. I decided there was still a lot of good I could do in the world. I realize that might sound strange, but there's a lot more to piloting than just death and destruction. I hope you realize that."
"I think I do, ma'am."
She purses her lips. "Just Taylor is fine, Johnson."
"Okay."
The two of you continue to munch your cookies in silence, punctuated by the occasional crack of gunshots in the background.
To tell the truth, this is actually kind of relaxing.
As with all good things, it comes to an end far sooner than you'd like. "Alright, break's over," Taylor announces, rising to her feet. "Let's see you hit those targets again. Faster this time."
"Yes, ma'am," you sigh.
----------
"Yes! I am invincible!" you shout triumphantly and punch the air. You've no idea how you did it – all your deliriously-typed documentation is filled to the brim with typos and reads like gibberish, or machine language – but, somehow, it actually fucking works.
With the aid of your college-trained 'leet programming skills, your fickle and capricious hangar crew, and a few long-winded rambles from Richard Buck, you actually managed to whip the core of your Q-35A's fire control software into something resembling good shape. You haven't had any chance to test your changes outside of a simulation yet, of course; but in the virtual world of ones and zeroes, you find that your attacks on targets at long range err slightly closer to one than zero.
You let out a sigh of utter euphoria, and promptly fall asleep in your seat, leaking drool onto the amorphous gel.
End of Episode 2
----------
Congratulations! Your +3 Maintenance stat kicked in and allowed you to marginally improve one of your mecha's myriad faults. Well done!
Of course, you didn't spend all of that time working on the fire control software. There were enough engineer-hours on the side to slip in a little mid-season upgrade too. What was it?
[] Refactoring the fuel management program.
Unlike certain other parts of the Q-35A's operating system and associated software, this program was written mostly in-house, and is consequently easier to make unauthorized bugfixes to. + This notably increases the time your mecha can remain airborne, already considerably higher than the baseline with your sharpshooter configuration. - Any rewriting of core code has the potential to introduce new and exciting bugs, even in seemingly unrelated parts like the load balancing program.
[] Replacing the AESA radar with a new and improved model.
By some inscrutable workings of the USAF supply systems, a batch of Raytheon's new and improved radars arrived at H-3 Air Base. They don't seem to be asking for it back, so, in theory, there's nothing stopping you from installing it yourself. It should integrate about as well as the rest of the Q-35A's systems have so far. + This increases your ability to pick out enemy mechas and armour against background clutter, aiding both scouting and sniping. + This will also counteract the negative effects of IR smoke. - The signals produced by this radar are incredibly powerful, which will lead to enemies more easily detecting your mecha and prioritizing it as a target.
[] Applying blocks of explosive reactive armour.
Similar to the ERA used in TUSK upgrades for the M1 Abrams, their "appliqué" nature makes their addition to mechas a simple and pain-free process. + Moderately improves your mecha's durability in combat, particularly against tank rounds and mecha swords. - The number of blocks needed to provide full coverage severely increases the mecha's weight, hampering its maneuvers and reducing operational endurance.
[] Installing the newest generation of active protection system.
Originally co-developed by the Rafael, IMI, and IAI trifecta to protect IDF tanks from ATGMs, its components are generalisable enough to be fitted on mechas. For a modest sum of aid money, you too can enjoy the benefits of this system. + This will provide extra protection from tank rounds, RPGs, and ATGMs. - The sensors required for the APS to function correctly are not properly integrated with the Q-35A's own sensor suite, hindering reconnaissance and long range attacks.
[] Welding a bayonet lug to the end of your anti-tank sniper rifle.
This isn't really the USAF's preferred style, but as it turns out, it's a surprisingly simple modification to make. Bayonet included. + Restores CQC ability to the sharpshooter variant. - The Q-35A's handling and balance is adversely affected by the additional weight and increased profile, making it a little more difficult to perform finer maneuvers.
----------
SV is doing the weird thing where it adds a zillion newlines to the text again. Fortunately I have access to a workaround, but do let me know if the formatting got messed up anywhere.
Replacing the AESA radar with a new and improved model.
In the interests of getting this out before embarking on a 13-hour flight, I cut a lot of corners on this update. Not as many corners as LockMart tho
----------
PUTIN: PILOT OR PROPAGANDA?
Russian News Agency TASS posted a video on its website featuring President Vladimir Putin piloting one of Russia's newest prototype mechas, reviving the ongoing mystery and speculation into the macho president's secretive past.
The video shows Putin performing a warm-up calibration callisthenics routine inside a hangar whilst wearing a pilot suit, before boarding a Cy-57 mecha painted in the camouflage colours of the Russian Ground Forces. It then cuts to a series of shots that depict the Cy-57 undertaking an assault course at the Borodinovka training ground in Russia's southern region of Rostov-on-Don. The Cy-57 performs various maneuvers, including rocket-assisted boost-jumps and boost-turns, and destroys several targets using sword and cannon, which include mock-ups of American HMMWVs and M1 Abrams tanks. At the end, an electronic billboard lights up, showing that the Cy-57's pilot has achieved an almost-perfect score.
The video promptly went viral on domestic and international social media, receiving over five million total views within forty-eight hours of being posted.
Western analysts have expressed doubts over the video's authenticity, alleging several inconsistencies that suggest it was embellished or even fabricated entirely. "We never see his shots actually hitting the targets," Samantha Howard, a member of the Centre for Strategic and International Studies, a Washington-based think-tank, who specializes in the effects of mechas on international relations, said. "We see him firing, and then the video cuts to the targets being hit. Those shots could have been fired from anywhere or by anyone."
"In any case, it's impossible that Putin could have piloted the mecha," Howard went on to say, "because he's simply too old. It's unheard of for any pilot to retain their QM aptitude past the age of forty. I think it's more likely that Putin was riding along as a passenger, if he was present at all, while an actual pilot carried out the maneuvers."
Asked where he found the time to maintain his QM aptitude and piloting qualifications on top of his presidential duties, Putin replied simply, "I like to stay in shape."
----------
As always, your alarm clock chooses to intrude upon your brain's sovereignty just when things start to get interesting. You try your best to cling to the fleeing vestiges of dream, but it's too late, the kingdom of sleep is getting regime changed and a pro-wakefulness puppet installed.
Your brain's new administration consolidates power and purges the last of the previous regime's supporters, then shows its gratitude to its benefactor by having your hand dart out and stab the alarm clock in the off button.
It's very tempting to hit snooze, but you foil sleep's attempt at a counter-coup and sit up in bed, rubbing your eyes. Captain Tanner swung by yesterday as you were leaving the hangar to inform you that there'd be an important briefing this morning, and it won't do for you to disappoint him by being late – or Taylor.
Somehow, the thought of Taylor being disappointed in you is a much more motivating force.
You work up the willpower to swing your legs out over the side of the bed and stand up. As a mecha pilot, and more importantly as an officer, you benefit from the privilege of having your very own room in H-3 Air Base's male barracks. It's small and barren, with barely enough space for the bed and nightstand, but the privacy it offers you at night is nonetheless welcome.
At least there's an outlet to charge your phone… not that you really have anyone to call.
Yawning, you start to make your bed with drilled motions. The briefing's only at 1000 hours, so there's plenty of time to shower, dress, and eat something. Hopefully breakfast won't be interrupted by rockets again.
As you straighten the pillow, your fingers brush over something small, cold, and hard.
It's a steel bolt screwed halfway into a nut.
You stare at it for a long while, place the pillow back over it, and walk away.
----------
"Following our last sortie, the Syrian Arab Army's offensive has slowed considerably," Taylor once again leads the briefing. "While this has allowed the rebels to regroup and push back the government forces, it also created a vacuum that Islamic State was able to exploit for its own benefit." Markers spring up on the map. "It has used the reprieve to consolidate its hold on numerous towns in Syria's east, many of which it captured in its last major offensive two years ago."
As Tanner and Taylor take turns speaking, you keep stealing glances at Antonia Clarke. She's got her feet up on the seat in front of her, and from time to time she rubs her legs together for some unfathomable reason. It's really distracting, and you wonder if she's doing it deliberately.
"The United States has determined that we must act to contain and neutralize the threat posed by IS before it can spread further. In pursuit of this goal, we will enter Syria and support our regional allies in assaulting and liberating the towns held by IS." Taylor's laser pointer hovers on such a marker. "Our first objective will be to assault and liberate the town of al-Sukhnah in the Homs Governorate, which we will use as a jumping-off point for subsequent operations. Question, Lieutenant Buck."
"Yeah, ma'am," Buck says, lowering his hand. "I realize borders can be a vague and fuzzy concept around here, but I distinctly remember that our squadron's mission was to fight ISIS in Iraq."
"Yes, Lieutenant," Tanner explains patiently, "but now we're fighting ISIS in Syria. It's the same thing, really."
"Coach's right," Hansen nods approvingly. "Hajis here or hajis there, they all get blown up the same."
A scowl of disapproval visibly flashes across Taylor's face. "If I can continue," she says firmly. "Our opponents will be primarily light infantry, with some technical and limited armour and artillery support. Despite their material disadvantages, we expect that they will have fortified al-Sukhnah and will do everything possible to hinder our progress. Ambushes, IEDs, human shields, the lot."
"We might also have to deal with Syrian government forces in the area," Tanner adds. "They shouldn't try to mess with us after we bloodied their nose last time, but you never know, so keep your eyes peeled and make sure they keep their distance."
"Question," Hansen interjects. "The government's fighting the sissies too, right? Why don't we just let them take each other out? Thin their numbers a bit for us."
"Because, Lieutenant Hansen, the Syrian government is guilty of committing multiple human rights violations during the course of this war," Taylor snaps. You've never seen her get angry like this before, and you instinctively lean away from Hansen to avoid any possible association with him. "We are a force for good in the region, and we will not in good conscience even indirectly condone a massacre, no matter what tactical advantage it might give."
"I'm just saying–"
"That's enough, Hansen," Tanner orders, staring him down.
"…Yes, sir."
There's an awkward silence for a moment.
"Let's not lose sight of the main objective, squadron," Taylor continues. "Now then, the tactics for this engagement will be –"
----------
[] A lightning offensive to overrun the enemy.
This option prioritizes speed and initiative, aiming to push ISIS out of the town as fast as possible. This will win the battle quickly, but accidents may happen in the confusion.
[] An encirclement before contracting and crushing the enemy.
This option will guarantee the ISIS garrison's total destruction, at the cost of being slow to execute. This leaves them with plenty of time to do things you may not like.
[] A steady creep to reduce the enemy.
This option will cause ISIS's presence in the town to gradually become untenable, thus forcing them to disperse after taking some casualties. Not the most imaginative path, but somewhat effective nonetheless.
[] Write in a tactic. You are not yet experienced enough to use write-ins.
EPISODE 3.2 - The perfect is the enemy of the greater good
Okay, so first of all, major apologies for how long this took to write.
As you can see, this experiment in writing didn't really go as well as I'd hoped. It was always a little ambitious, but at the time I started this quest I really was confident that I could handle it. And, for a while, I did manage to keep up a pretty swift pace, proving to myself that, at some level, I could in fact do this sort of writing.
But then I went overseas, and everything promptly crashed as a result. Suffice to say my health suffered a massive downturn, and I've only recently managed to recover from it. Then I started my new job and got worn out all over again. Thus, for a month I wasn't really able to write at all. And as much as I know that real life always takes precedence over any Internet hobbies, I still felt disappointed in myself.
Still, it was a lot of fun while it lasted. It seems that people are still enthused about this quest. And it'd be nice to not have yet another unfinished work weighing down on me.
So in light of this, I hereby declare a troop surge to reinforce this quest and guide it on the path towards a decisive and definitive victory. The new deadline to finish this quest will be 30th April 2020.
Let's hope 2020 doesn't get any stupider in the meantime.
----------
TRUMP VISITS SITE OF BORDER WALL, COST EXPECTED TO RISE
US President Donald Trump paid a visit to a site in San Diego, California, where work on his campaign promise of a US-Mexico border wall began last month.
"It's an amazing project," he said to reporters at the scene. "No country has ever done anything like this before. These mechas, these big robots, they're really big machines, the biggest machines anyone's ever seen. We're gonna use them to build the wall, and it's gonna be the biggest wall in history. Believe me."
Present at the scene were an unspecified number of Q-15 mechas being operated by the US Army Corps of Engineers. Work on the wall continued during the president's visit, precluding him from shaking any of the pilots' hands.
Concerns have been raised by anonymous White House staffers over the large sums of funding needed to maintain and operate military-grade mechas throughout the project's lifetime. While Trump claimed that the use of mechas would save money because "one pilot does the job of dozens of workers", it is believed over US$18 billion of military funding has already been diverted so far in order to fund the wall's construction.
At a press conference held later the same day, Mexican President Enrique Pena Nieto reiterated his country's refusal pay for the wall.
As Trump boasted about the impenetrability of the wall's planned features, a nearby Q-15 accidentally dropped its load of hollow steel beams, nearly crushing the presidential state car and several Secret Service agents. After confirming that the car remained undamaged, Trump commented that he would "see about getting the robots some bigger hands".
----------
Unlike your first sortie from H-3 Air Base, this operation is pre-planned and expected to unfold at a pace of the USAF's choosing. There's still a thick humidity of tension in the air as your squadron comes to terms with the prospect of entering combat again, but things aren't so urgent that you feel the need to run anywhere.
More importantly, it means that there's enough time for some last-minute essential maintenance before you deploy; something you're very thankful for. You still aren't too sure how your changes to the fire control and sensor software will work out in the field, let alone how nicely they'll play with that sparkling new radar you had SSgt Perrier and his team install for you.
As you walk down the passage that leads from the briefing room back the hangar, you become aware of a certain presence falling in a mere few steps behind you.
You very determinedly do not turn around. Actually seeing her face feels like it would collapse some sort of universal quantum wave function, and you're not sure you could handle that right now.
The sound of her footsteps, along with a few light hums and deep sighs, follows you all the way to your Q-35A's main access hatch, at which point you face a dilemma. Should you keep your back turned while you open it, and leave yourself vulnerable while your hands are full? Or should you turn and stare her down, and risk whatever fiendish plots she has in mind?
You've never been good at resolving dilemmas like this. So you keep putting off that painful point of decision, as the moment stretches out and the hubbub of other mechas' pre-flight preparations grows louder.
"Lieutenant Johnson," 1st Lt Taylor prompts. "Is there something wrong with your main access hatch?"
Feeling a weight lift off your shoulders, you turn to face your saviour. She's standing a few metres off to the side, a position that lets her keep a wary officer's eye on both you and 2nd Lt Clarke. The latter has her hands in her pockets, her stare focused entirely on you.
"Not at all, uh, ma'am," you reply casually. "Just weighing up the risks and benefits of collapsing quantum wave functions."
"I see," Taylor says, nonplussed. "Lieutenant Clarke, the time for sortie is approaching. I suggest you attend to your pre-launch preparations."
"Mm," she replies, brushing away a loose lock of hair. You think you see an expression of interest and curiosity cross her face, but then it's gone again. "Okay then."
You and Taylor continue to observe her as she ambles away unhurriedly, until she hauls herself into her mecha with a strangely languid motion.
"Are you alright, Lieutenant?"
"I think so, ma'am."
"That's good." The two of you stand there in silence for a moment. "You should attend to your pre-launch preparations too, Johnson. I'll be depending on you once we're out there."
"Sure thing, Taylor. You can count on me."
She gives you a slight smile, the first you've seen from her, and then she's gone too.
----------
The launch sequence goes much the same as it did last time. Your suit goes on; there's a modestly painful synchronization; your Q-35A lumbers out of the hangar, builds up speed running down the runway, and takes off in a fiery conflagration of exhaust gases and scorched earth. Estimated time to al-Sukhnah: 52 seconds.
It's a little harder to maintain the icy focus needed to pilot the mecha, but you can't help it; you're just so excited by the sight of so many green status indicators and so few error messages being projected into your flight helmet right now. All those cups of coffee and loosely-documented bugfixes and begging SSgt Perrier for maintenance hours actually paid off.
As you hurtle through the air, you elect to spend the idle time playing around with your new radar. This, too, seems to have benefited from all your programming labours, as the relevant software only throws up non-critical error codes every five seconds instead of two. And so much resolution! You've never seen computer graphics so beautiful in your life. Thanks to the innovations of Raytheon's engineers, each and every radar ping gives you access to an unparalleled synthesized composite view of the endless Syrian Desert. Or at least that's what the brochure says.
Well, okay, it's not really endless. You're coming up on one of the few and far between landmarks dotting it now.
Suddenly remembering something very important, you hurriedly focus your radar pings on the coordinates you expect to land in. It is, thankfully, a completely empty patch of dirt, with not even a little tuft of grass for you to crush beneath your mighty feet or torch with a light brush of your rocket exhaust.
"You know," 2nd Lt Buck remarks, as you touch down a dozen metres away, "it occurs to me that this town just so happens to be on the highway between Palmyra and Deir-ez-Zor, which just so happen to be controlled by the Syrian government and ISIS respectively."
"Queen Five, is there a point you're trying to make?" Taylor asks, making her flawless landing right next to you. "Over."
"I'm just saying, we aren't just liberating this town from the goodness of our hearts."
"That's a relief," Clarke pipes up. "For a moment, I was worried I'd have to be nice to someone."
"… Just concentrate on the mission at hand," Taylor answers after a moment. "And you will maintain radio discipline, over."
"Yes mom, over."
The six of you form up six hundred metres south of the aforementioned highway. From here, you have a good view of al-Sukhnah on the other side: a massive sprawling suburb that's the same beige colour as the surrounding desert, seemingly comprised of nothing but two-storey square blocks adorned with sandbags and black flags. Gravel roads criss-cross between them, with the occasional tree or hedgerow running alongside.
Nothing moves along them.
As much out of curiosity as tactical prudence, you sweep your radar over the buildings. It returns a number of contacts that vaguely resemble cars. Your newfound resolution is not, sadly, capable of determining whether they qualify as technicals or not.
"That's a nice piece of equipment you've got there, Ricky," Clarke drawls on the radio, breaking your concentration. "I've seen a lot of those in my time, but yours is definitely the best."
"Uh… thanks." She's talking about your radar, and absolutely no force in the universe can convince you otherwise.
"That's only because you haven't seen mine yet, Predator," Hansen leers.
"I'd have to be able to see it first, wouldn't I," Clarke parries nonchalantly.
"Why, you–" The rest of Hansen's transmission dissolves into angry, incoherent static.
"That's enough chatter, boys and girls," Tanner admonishes. "Seeing that we're all here on time and on target, we'll proceed with the operation as planned. All Queens, advance on foot into the town."
"Roger," everyone replies in some form.
"Advance on foot," Buck snickers. "Never thought I'd hear that in the Air Force."
Hansen grumbles something indistinct that includes the words 'walking' and 'retarded'.
The squadron crosses the highway, soon walking among all those square blocks, spread out so that a single IED doesn't blow up everyone. Hansen takes point, while Buck and Tanner cover the flanks, and Clarke guards the rear. You and Taylor are in the centre of the formation.
Being three storeys tall, you're able to look out and aim your sniper rifle over the two-storey rooftops without much trouble. Figures move around furtively on some of them; they're not obviously carrying weapons, so you're not allowed to shoot them.
Before the civil war, al-Sukhnah used to be a minimally notable centre for natural gas. Now it still is, but ISIS controls it and sells off the gas to fund its reign of terror over the populace. You still don't quite get how they're selling the gas, or who they're selling it to, but Taylor's briefing emphatically assured you that they're selling it.
There's very little of that populace visible now, at least in the visible spectrum. Infrared – and isn't that a wonder, working infrared – lets you see white silhouettes huddling in their black windows, waiting to be set free into a grayscale landscape by your squadron.
It's from one of those windows that the first RPG flies, spiralling through the air a mere five metres from 2nd Lt Hansen's mecha.
"Contact!" Hansen barks, swivelling to fire a burst of 30mm into the offending building. The street instantly fills with dust and smoke as high explosive incendiary rounds break apart the brick and concrete façade, showering the road with bits of rubble.
Another RPG is fired out of a different building, almost the opposite direction. Hansen sees it and boost-jumps backwards to avoid it, landing close enough to kick up dust over your frame. Buck and Tanner both fire back in response.
Contrary to what the movies portray, there's no telltale whistling to mark their flight, so the first indication that ISIS is firing mortars at you is when they start landing nearby in scattered clusters. Fortunately, while they'd likely endanger any hypothetical infantry accompanying you, they turn out to not be very effective against your Q-35As' titanium alloy frames.
"Queen Six, take out those enemy mortars, over," Taylor orders you.
"Roger," you answer, almost relieved to have something to do. Using a standing boost-jump, you take off and soar a hundred metres into the sky. Your infrared identifies the sites easily; your freshly improved fire control software swiftly provides a solution. You fire several times in succession at the apex of your arc, and the high explosive anti-tank multi-purpose tracer rounds smite them from the Earth.
By the time you land on the ground again, your wingmen have ceased fire. The building Hansen was first attacked from is practically eviscerated, leaving only the hollowed out brick shell. The origin of the second attack meanwhile has had large chunks gouged out of it, along with several of its neighbours.
You wonder how many ISIS fighters were actually killed in the process.
"Hey, I see something in there," Hansen says, shaking you from your contemplation.
"Yeah, I think I see it too," Buck affirms. "It looks like a tunnel. A long dark tunnel that probably pops up somewhere out of town. Or in your mom."
"Well, that's fucking gay. Should've expected hajis would try and pull some sneaky shit like this."
"So…" you interject before they get too carried away, "what are we gonna do about it?"
"Well jeez, it'd sure be nice if we could send some Marines in there to flush them out," Buck replies. "That's how combined arms works, right? We do all the flashy shit, and then the infantry does the shit nobody actually likes doing."
Privately, you agree with him. It would be nice to have some Marines to sweep through the enemy's tunnel networks for you. Unfortunately, they're only going to arrive at the tail end of this mission. They apparently steadfastly refused to actively work alongside any mechas, citing an unacceptably high risk of danger close.
"Don't worry," Clarke says, sounding inappropriately cheerful. "I'll take care of this."
Her Q-35A walks up to the tunnel entrance, rifle in hand. Then it takes a few steps back. Then one forward. Then two left. Then three right. Two left. One forward. Three back.
"Predator," Tanner says after about a minute of this, "what exactly are you trying to do, over?"
"Trying to find the right angle," Clarke replies with a distracted affect. "These weren't really meant for this kind of work…"
As she says this, a quartet of smoke grenades pops out of the dispensers mounted on her Q-35A. One of them does in fact fall into the tunnel mouth, while the others bounce off the ground, all bursting into a thick cloud of infrared-blocking white phosphorus smoke.
"Oh, very nice," Hansen says approvingly. "Smoke out those haji fucks."
"Queen Three, you are aware that using incendiary weapons in populated areas is a war crime, over," Taylor admonishes.
"What do you mean?" Clarke replies all innocently. "I'm just using these to screen our movement from enemies in the tunnels. It's not my fault if they land on someone." Then she takes aim and fires a burst of 30mm at the tunnel entrance, collapsing it.
You get the feeling this doesn't impress Taylor very much, but she doesn't say anything further. Nobody does.
Eventually, Capt Tanner orders the squadron to continue the advance, and you all trudge onward.
The next few street blocks are relatively uninhabited. A couple of ISIS fighters pop out to take potshots at you, and then promptly flee as a hailstorm of 30mm tears their cover apart.
At one point, you find that some powerlines obstruct the path. Without saying anything, Hansen pulls out his sword and chops them down. Nobody else says anything either.
Occasionally, mortars arc over the town to explode nearby, and Taylor orders you to fly up and fire 120mm thunderbolts at them. The mortars are duly destroyed, but they never seem to take their operators with them.
Still, this is almost too easy.
You immediately try to squelch that thought, but it's too late, you've jinxed your entire squadron and everything that happens next is now your fault.
"Predator, you're too close to–" Tanner starts to warn.
To her credit, Clarke doesn't hesitate: her Q-35A instantly kicks off the ground with the assistance of her rocket thrusters, allowing her to escape the blast radius of a seemingly derelict car that suddenly detonates with the force of a lot of plastic explosives.
She lands on the road, a dozen metres away; and then the other IED promptly explodes, shredding her mecha's right leg with a cloud of shrapnel. The Q-35A falls to its knees, catching itself on a nearby brick wall just in time.
"Mayday!" Clarke calls out, not sounding particularly distressed. "I've fallen and I can't get up!"
"Well that just fucking sucks, Predator," Buck's the first to offer words of comfort and assurance. "Have you tried turning it off and on again?"
"It isn't my leg that needs turning off and on again."
The rest of the squadron gathers around Clarke's fallen mecha. The damage to her right leg is enough to mobility-kill her, but she hasn't suffered any other damage or personal injury.
"We can't afford to lose momentum," Tanner quickly decides. "Eagle Buster, stay here and guard Predator's machine. All other Queens will continue the assault."
"Copy, Queen One." You're not really sure how to feel about this, but you suppose it makes sense.
"Queen Six, refrain from doing anything reckless until we get back. Over."
"Uh, roger?" You have absolutely no idea what your assistant squadron leader means by that.
"Lucky bastard," Hansen grumbles, as his mecha stomps along the road away from you.
"Oh, I agree," Buck says. "Predator gets to sit in the sun flashing everyone, while we get to have people shoot at us with RPGs and try to catch us on camera chopping houses into sashimi. With our swords. Hey, maybe I should try using my sword like you, White Knight. At least I might actually hit something with it."
"It'll be the only thing you hit today," Hansen retorts. "Have I ever told you how much of a pussy-ass bitch you are, Skywalker?"
"Yeah, but did I ever tell you about the time I –"
The radio chatter of your wingmen becomes so much background noise in your mind as they move out, leaving your mecha to stand there awkwardly next to Clarke's, peering over the tops of buildings in a vain effort to see whether anyone's approaching you.
"Hey, Ricky," Clarke calls, a strange feedback effect ringing in her voice. It takes you a moment to realize that she's using her loudspeaker to talk to you. It makes sense: this way, none of your fellow squadron members will be able to overhear your conversation amongst all the explosions taking place in the background.
It doesn't prevent any of the civilians sheltering within their houses nearby from hearing you, but they've got more important things to worry about.
"What is it, Clarke?" you respond after a quick glance over your radar. No contacts.
"You'd better do your best to protect me," Clarke orders with a mockingly serious tone. "Otherwise bad things might happen."
"Like what?" you ask distractedly. Keeping an eye on all the mecha's instruments takes a lot more concentration than the unreadable black bubble of your flight helmet makes it appear.
"Well, for starters, some ISIS fighters could walk up to my crippled, defenseless mecha and blowtorch their way in to get at the limp, unconscious pilot within. Then they might throw me in the back of a Toyota and drive me to some wadi in the middle of the desert, where not even the camels dare to tread. And then who knows what could happen to my luscious and alluring body in such an isolated and unaccountable place?"
Repetitive bursts of 30mm fire thud in the distance, a mere few hundred metres away. It sounds like the rest of your squadron has encountered further resistance – and, judging by Taylor's repeated exhortations to exercise due caution, has become less discriminate in their efforts to neutralize it. If you pay close attention, not an easy thing with Clarke's overactive imagination doing its best to infect your brain, you can distinguish the booms of enemy RPGs from those of 2nd Lt Buck's rocket pods.
"And it'd all be your fault, Ricky. You'd be condemned to lie restless in bed for the rest of your days, thinking of all the awful things that happened to your wingman because of your weakness. What do you think about that?"
"I don't think any of that's going to happen," you answer, as soon as your mind finishes boggling over how detailed and descriptive her scenario was.
"What makes you think that?" she presses coyly.
"All the ISIS fighters pulled out already." Your squadron's markers are nearing the edge of al-Sukhnah on your HUD's map, and the sound of gunfire is levelling off, so it seems to be a safe assessment to make.
"Oh. How disappointing."
You honestly can't tell whether she's serious or not.
----------
True to your word, the brief engagement which will likely end up on Wikipedia as the Battle of al-Sukhnah shortly comes to an end.
As the smoke clears, your squadron holds back from pursuing fleeing ISIS fighters, due to concerns that you'll run out of fuel diving too deep into enemy territory. UH-1Y and CH-53E helicopters arrive from al-Tanf, unloading a company's worth of US Marines and rebel fighters to sweep and secure the town. They enjoy an uncomfortable stare-off with the company's worth of SAA tanks, and attached militants, which arrives from the highway leading west to Palmyra.
Nobody shoots, and your squadron helps to ensure it stays that way.
"Wow," Richard Buck summarizes eloquently as his Q-35A plods through the streets of al-Sukhnah, carefully watching its footing to avoid getting caught on any of the copious rubble lying about everywhere. "We sure liberated the fuck out of this town. Along with a whole bunch of its inhabitants, too."
"The only good haji is a liberated haji," Hansen declares with satisfaction at a job well done. Dark bloodstains run down titanium alloy legs, lost in the camouflage colours of his machine. "Shame we didn't manage to get more of the headcutters, though."
"Civilian casualties are nothing anyone should get excited over," Capt Tanner speaks gravely. "They're an unfortunate yet inevitable consequence of war, and it's our duty as pilots to minimize them as much as we can. Even if they're ultimately necessary for the greater good."
"That's right," Taylor affirms, backing up her captain. "The reason we're fighting here is to prevent this sort of devastation from ever occurring. I hope all of you keep this in mind going forward."
"Oh yeah, absolutely nobody could've predicted this might happen. I mean, it's not like people live in towns or anything. All these civilians who get caught in the crossfire are probably disaster tourists or something. It's a real problem in this part of the world, all these disaster tourists who just show up at random towns to get blown up. I mean, who does that?"
As Buck continues to chatter on into the afternoon sun, you gaze around at the ruins you and your squadron have created. You've liberated al-Sukhnah from the ravages of ISIS, but at what cost?
End of Episode 3
----------
Select one outcome which does occur.
[] The US mechas sustained notable damage during the battle.
[] ISIS was able to flee with most of its forces intact.
[] US forces directly caused an excessive number of civilian casualties.
[] The SAA was able to occupy parts of al-Sukhnah before it was fully secured.
----------
Hangar Queens: Now with -100% more double anti-positives!
The SAA was able to occupy parts of al-Sukhnah before it was fully secured.
Some of the consequences of aftermath votes have less immediate and obvious effects, but they all come home to roost sooner or later.
----------
TRUMP TO PULL OUT OF IRAQ, SYRIA
In a press conference at the White House, US President Donald Trump unexpectedly announced that he would begin drawing down US military forces deployed to Iraq and Syria.
"We want to bring our troops home," Trump explained his rationale for the decision. "It's been many, many years. It's been decades, in many cases. We want to bring our troops back home. And I got elected on that. If you go back and look at our speeches, I would say, 'We want to bring our troops back home from these endless wars.'"
It is unclear to what extent this decision may have been influenced by Trump's personal interactions with Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan. "Just had a very productive conversation with @RTErdogan," Trump tweeted only a few hours prior to making the announcement. "Big news coming soon!"
Shortly after the announcement, the White House announced that Secretary of Defense James Mattis resigned in protest of the decision. "I didn't accept this role just to leave a job half-done," an anonymous White House staffer claims Mattis said to Trump in the Oval Office. "You're going to have to get the next secretary of defense to lose to ISIS."
When reporters questioned whether the drawdown would negatively impact the US-led international coalition against the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria, Trump defended his administration's record in battling ISIS. "We've done more than anybody else to defeat ISIS. I've done more than any other president to defeat ISIS. Nobody knows more about fighting ISIS than I do. Believe me."
"Look at Obama," Trump continued. "He had eight years to beat ISIS and he couldn't beat ISIS. When I came in it was all a mess, a huge mess. Nobody knew what was happening, nobody knew what was going on, everyone was looking to us for leadership. I took it over and got it together, and we did it very quickly, more quickly than anyone thought we could do it."
Trump further justified his decision by claiming that other members of NATO benefited unduly from the presence of the US-led coalition. "It's very unfair, you know, all these other countries are taking advantage of us. You've got France, you've got Germany, all these European countries where ISIS fighters came from in the first place. We're doing them a great service and they're not paying their fair share."
Details of the planned withdrawal remain scarce. Leaked Pentagon memos suggest that the Trump administration would aim to withdraw all troops within six months, just in time for Christmas. Mechas returning home would be reassigned to garrisons along the US-Mexico border, where Trump's promised wall continues to take shape.
----------
"So, what's this I hear about someone wanting to pull out?" Buck opens as you arrive at the briefing room at the leisurely time of 1100 hours.
"Wasn't me," Clarke intones flatly. She's brought three of those uncomfortable plastic chairs together and is currently lying on her back across them, idling tossing a steel bolt up at the ceiling. You give her a cautious glance, and take a seat in the opposite corner of the room.
"Argh! I can't believe Trump went and did something like that!" Hansen rages, stalking back and forth in front of the projector screen. "I know he said he was gonna do it, but I didn't think he actually would!"
"Really? Then why'd you vote for him? Sounds like you were gonna be disappointed either way."
"You don't get it, Buckface! I– we can't get out yet! There's so much liberating to do!"
"Speak for yourself, man. I'm already looking forward to that cushy beach posting in San Diego. Riding the surf, hitting bars, checking out dudes in speedos, laughing at all the Mexicans on the other side of the border…" Buck adjusts his aviators for effect. "I can dig that, no problem. How about you, Buster? How does it feel to get in and out so quickly?"
"Oh, me?" You blink, surprised at being called on. "It's kinda nice, I guess. I'll believe it when I see it, to be honest."
"Ugh," Hansen groans disgustedly. "I knew you'd turn out to be a fucking pussy too. Can't believe it took me this long to realize it. Buster, my ass."
"What a shame," Clarke deadpans. "Here, catch."
You find yourself instantly bracing for whatever she's got in store… and she tosses the bolt at Buck instead.
"Hey!" he complains as it bounces off his head. "I thought we had ourselves a ceasefire, Predator?"
"Collateral damage," she replies blandly.
"If I'm the collateral, then who's– Oh. I see how it is." A knowing look crosses Buck's face as he glances at you. "Hey, listen, later tonight–" He crouches down next to Clarke and whispers something in her ear. You're too far away to make out anything, let alone anything juicy.
"Mm," Clarke nods after a moment. "Okay."
But then again, you're not sure you want to know what they're talking about. Ignorance is bliss.
"Will you two stop–" Hansen begins, then stops as the door opens.
Everyone stands to attention as Capt Tanner and 1st Lt Taylor enter the room, neither of them looking overly pleased at recent developments; with the exception of Clarke, who salutes without bothering to get up from her improvised resting place. Taylor frowns disapprovingly at that, but, once again, declines to prosecute the lack of propriety. You wonder what the deal with that is.
"Morning, everyone," Tanner greets. "I'm sure you've all heard the news by now. Now, I know what you're thinking: How does this affect my operational readiness as a pilot and our force posture as a squadron? Well, I've got good news and bad news for you in that regard. Let's see now…"
He pulls a quarter out of his pocket and flips it.
"Alright, first the good news: the withdrawal of our forces is set to occur in phases over the next six months. Our squadron will be one of those remaining in theatre. Until we're formally withdrawn from H-3 Air Base, we'll be continuing operations against ISIS and other hostile actors as planned."
"Thank fucking Christ," Hansen declares, pumping his fist. "Makes me real glad to hear we aren't leaving a job half-done."
"What?" Buck gapes in disbelief. "Isn't the whole point of pulling out that we decided to stop fighting? What's the point of going out there and getting blown up when we're gonna leave in six months anyway?"
"Settle down, Lieutenant Buck," Tanner cautions.
Personally, you can't say you're too thrilled about the idea, either. But you know better than to voice that aloud.
"Now the bad news," Taylor takes over from the captain. "Due to the logistical hurdles involved in extracting ourselves from the region in a timely manner, the supply situation will depreciate noticeably. As a result, we can expect to see our inventory of spare parts begin to approach exhaustion within the next three months."
You feel yourself blanching in shock upon hearing this. Everyone else seems to need a moment of silence to process what they've just heard.
"Are you fucking serious?" Buck demands loudly, leaping to his feet in outrage. "We're not only gonna keep fighting when we've got no reason to fight, but we're gonna do it without spare parts. For our mechas. Which need more than seventy-five hours of maintenance per flight hour. Am I the only one who thinks this is an utterly retarded course of action?"
"Will you sit the fuck down and quit being such a whiny little bitch," Hansen snaps with exasperation. "We're here to kill terrorists and liberate hajis, not sit around in a hangar sucking nerds' cocks all day."
"See, this is why pulling out never works," Buck retorts, glaring at his wingman. "Even when you think it's all over, some asshole decides he wants to make a name for himself and ruins everything for everyone else. Isn't that right, Predator?"
"Mm-hmm," Clarke answers in the affirmative, seeming neither enthused nor dismayed by these unfolding revelations.
"Now, there's no need to get too worked up about this," Tanner scolds, "because we're going to win before it becomes an issue. We still have enough force in-theatre to pursue our goals in the region, and that's what we're going to do."
"Nevertheless," Taylor continues smoothly, "we'll be implementing some precautionary measures into our activites so as to reduce the maintenance burden on our mechas and staff going forward. After consulting with Colonel Marquez and the other squadrons, we've determined that the best method of achieving this will be –"
----------
[] Rotate mechas out of the squadron.
It's very simple: fewer mechas being deployed in the field means fewer spare parts are needed to maintain them afterwards. The only question is: who gets to sit out? Selecting this option will lead to sub-votes before every battle to decide which member of Queen Squadron does not participate.
[] Prolong maintenance cycles.
This attempts to squeeze additional flight hours out of your current stockpile of spare parts by putting off both essential and non-essential maintenance as long as possible. Of course, your hangar crew will have widely varying opinions on exactly how reasonable a proposition this is…
[] Don't make any changes.
H-3 Air Base will continue to operate as though the looming issue of spare parts doesn't exist. Who knows? Maybe Trump will just as suddenly reverse course, or your enemies will all spontaneously combust, or the free market will provide…
----------
Depression makes easy updates medium, and medium updates hard.
"Now then," Taylor says, while everybody else is still processing all the implications of intentionally going into battle with an undermanned squadron, "with that out of the way, we'll be going through the outline for our next coming operation. Captain, if you would just…?"
Tanner dutifully flicks on the projector to show another map of some far-flung location in the Syrian Desert. Sometimes, you wonder who's really leading this squadron.
"With the liberation of al-Sukhnah on our last operation, the United States has been able to establish a forward airfield at a central location in the Syrian Desert. This has granted us a significant freedom of movement within Syria, which will facilitate our operations going forward."
Markers spring up all over the town. The eastern two thirds are covered by the nice blue markers of US troops and friendly green markers of associated rebels, while the western third is ruled by the mean red markers of the SAA and their attached militants.
"While the Syrian Arab Army has since consolidated its own foothold there, we believe it has been too occupied with the rebels in the west to send further reinforcements. What forces it does have in the area are not believed to pose a threat to us at this time."
The map briefly pans down and to the right, showing some rather neatly animated blue markers defeating a collection of evil black markers over an intersection.
"At the same time, with Bishop Squadron's liberation of the T2 pumping station, IS has been forced back from the Iraqi border and deprived of a major source of revenue from petroleum exports. Put simply, IS is on the back foot, which gives us the opportunity to launch the next stage of our liberation of eastern Syria."
The map flies up and zooms in on an urban area. Already, you can see that the thicket of streets is wider and denser than al-Sukhnah ever hoped to be.
"This is Deir ez-Zor: one of two major cities in eastern Syria held by IS, which form the cornerstone of its self-declared caliphate. In order to defeat IS, we will ultimately need to liberate both of these cities. This is the objective of our operation."
A crowded scatterplot of black and green markers appears. You take note that the bulk of black markers dominate the urban centre west of the Euphrates River, while green's territory is limited to the outskirts beyond the eastern bank.
"To ensure that the Syrian people are granted a stake in the future of their country, this operation will be conducted with the close cooperation of the Syrian Democratic Forces. They will assist us on the ground in taking and holding Deir ez-Zor and the surrounding areas. Our squadron's objective will be to eliminate IS's presence east of the Euphrates so that the SDF can assault the city proper. Questions."
"Do we really have to–"
"Yes, we do, Lieutenant Hansen," Tanner cuts him off sharply. "Next question."
"I have a question," you speak up, pointing at the map. "What are those little bunches of red markers near the city there?"
"Those are Syrian government forces, which have been trapped in the area since IS took control," Taylor answers without skipping a beat. "They've been able to hold out under siege thanks to receiving supplies via helicopter. They shouldn't pose a threat to us, but if they do turn hostile, we're authorized to destroy them as well."
"Got it."
"That's great and all," Buck butts in, "but I think the real question here is, who's gonna stay behind and miss out on all the fun?"
"It better not be me," Hansen growls. "We've got six months left in this desert shithole, and I plan to make the utmost of it."
"It's funny you should ask that…"
----------
Select one pilot who will not participate.
[] Second Lieutenant Antonia "Predator" Clarke.
Base stats: +1 Combat, -2 Maintenance, 0 Leadership.
Total stats: 0 Combat, 0 Maintenance, -1 Leadership.
Squadron role: Rifleman.
Modifications: +Smoke grenade dispensers.
Low concern for collateral damage.
Mecha previously damaged by IED, subsequently repaired.
[] Second Lieutenant Patrick "White Knight" Hansen.
Base stats: +2 Combat, 0 Maintenance, -1 Leadership.
Total stats: +1 Combat, +2 Maintenance, -2 Leadership.
Squadron role: Pointman.
Modifications: +Ballistic shield.
Very low concern for collateral damage.
[] Second Lieutenant Richard "Skywalker" Buck.
Base stats: 0 Combat, +2 Maintenance, 0 Leadership.
Total stats: -1 Combat, +4 Maintenance, -1 Leadership.
Squadron role: Grenadier.
Modifications: -Bugged targeting system.
Medium concern for collateral damage.
[] Second Lieutenant Ricky Eagle Buster Johnson III.
Base stats: -1 Combat, +1 Maintenance, 0 Leadership.
Total stats: -2 Combat, +3 Maintenance, -1 Leadership.
Squadron role: Sharpshooter.
Modifications: +Advanced radar.
High concern for collateral damage.
[] Rifleman.
A generalist, jack-of-all-trades role, which mainly exists to round out the capabilities of more specialist members of the squadron. In lieu of any special equipment, your Q-35 is able to haul significantly more 30mm magazines to the battlefield. You can also deploy with a massive ballistic shield in situations that warrant it, boosting your ability to hold the line.
The price of not being particularly good at anything is not being particularly good at anything.
Most effective against infantry.
[] Pointman.
A reconnaissance-based role, in which your Q-35 will always be ahead of the squadron and operating in unknown territory. To facilitate this, your engines and radar have been swapped out for more powerful models, while your servos receive top priority during maintenance cycles.
Your mecha is fast and light, with greater capability in close-quarters combat than peer models. However, its performance suffers against larger numbers of opponents and in longer-range engagements.
Most effective against mechas.
[] Grenadier.
A heavy weapons and area denial role, with the Q-35's signature maneuverability being sacrificed for even greater firepower. Your mecha is outfitted with a wide assortment of rocket pods, anti-tank missiles, canister rounds, and smoke grenade launchers that will make mincemeat of any massed opposition.
The only problem with this is that your mecha is really slow and heavy, less able to adapt to evolving situations. Inertia is a real drag.
Most effective against vehicles.
[] Sharpshooter.
A battlefield control and overwatch role, this variation of the Q-35 spends most of its time in the air, which is made possible by a greatly extended fuel capacity. Whenever it does sight a high-value target off in the distance, the replacement of its standard assault cannon with a heavier 120mm tank gun allows it to strike instantly and brutally.
However, you will have to pay a heavy price for this power: you will be unable to equip a sword and will have no close-quarters ability whatsoever.
Most effective against tanks.
Note that there are social, as well as military, consequences for this decision.
I should probably also mention that you can't choose to exclude the same pilot from missions twice in a row.
