Jade Falcon Headhunter
75.00
Planet Yuggoth, Inner Sphere Domains
Zueratis III Outpost, 1340 hours, December 25, 3052
The Jade Falcon warriors were stomping around outside the hut, he could hear the short and severe language being flung about, directed mostly at his fellow pilots. Those who fought in the ‘mechs seemed to think themselves as better than the men and women that served as support units.
“Elite, my arse”, Ian thought to himself. He knew how the battles were planned, and how much a part of them his new strike force would count in the future strategies. He was no freebirth moron, doomed to wipe grease off of mech struts and serve as a weapons loader, or even worse, as a repair bay technician…he was a pilot of the newest and meanest flying weapon in the Falcon arsenal, and one of the few that could look at a Daishi onscreen and just chuckle.
“I’d like to see a Timberwolf clanner say that”, he muttered under his breath. The genetically bread mechwarriors gave him the creeps most of the time, though they had the same sense of battle lust that he did too, and in their cups, could be quite fun to bander stories about. The violent raids on T’Kuyhleh, the upset of the Draconis Combine, the horrible failure to take Terra fast enough…he had cut his teeth on the knee of his birth-father listening to these tales.
On the wall hung a digital map of the battlefield, where red crosses marked the fallen, and the green lines told of the fight to come tomorrow.
His line was in neon blue, a fencing thrust straight into the heart of the Terrans.
He would not fail.
The engines were warming up, Ian could here the soft thrumming through the thin walls of his hotshack. He sat up, and in a lotus position, began reciting the names of his clan father’s, from initial conception to completion of his line, residing in him solely now…his other broden killed in the reprisal and reconciliation wars with Clan Wolf.
The boot soles knocked mud up against his siding, from the genetically perfect Elemental Warriors, running towards their suits…they were to be the bait for the revenge that burned in Ian’s heart.
To kill Mechs. That is what he lived for…ate, slept, and breathed.
1355 hours:
Sitting in the cockpit, Ian breathed through his wide nostrils, and concentrated on the viewscreen displayed on the windshield ahead.
Static. “We have heavy mechs down at Navpoint Gamma, repeat, at least two full lances of heavy and assault mechs are down and taking up position!” The radio voice was muted, but he could hear the panic.
Ian snorted, “More mechs, more dead terrans, so what.”
The intercom crackled again, “Flight One, Flight Two, Flight Three, Flight Four, Flight Five, Flight Six, Flight Seven, Flight Nine…cleared for takeoff.”
48 modified Peregrine attack rotowings lifted off in unison…Flight Eight hung back in case a sneak attack by enemy units, or if one flight had mechanical failure.
“ Or freebirth failure…” thought Ian…some of his co-pilots were not of clan warrior descent, and he did not trust them, or talk to them, “ Vermin.”
Freed of the heavy ground skid, the Peregrine lifted off into the auburn sky, the heavy Headhunter missile weighing it down, but manageable nonetheless. He pushed on the collective and the nose went down, increasing air speed over the massive rotors turning above…then, flicking a thumb switch, the jets came on, the blades stopped whirling, and locked into a fixed right angle…the jets powered up even more, and the “wings” carried him higher and higher, and faster…towards the target.