Lennard pushed that old jet of his to its utmost limit. Streaming a hot white stream behind him as his thrusters burned the dawn. His eyes could barely make out the distant silhouette of the Isesa Lee as it burned it's thrusters to it's limit.
Though, as huge as it's thrusters were, the small jet that scorched the skies behind it roared towards it at an incredible pace.
Around him, the shattered wrecks of the other transports fell. Every last one of them doomed to a simple fall.
From here. To there. The shining morning ground.
His hands gripped his flight stick with a calm dexterity. His fingers flexing in every minute capability. He squinted at the vast squadron of blue fighters that had been surging towards the transport from that great Ferolder. As if by some miracle of the Creator, they broke in half.
Turning back towards the great Ferolder, as if letting the distant ship have one last chance to escape.
Yet, one group of daring blue fighters still serged towards that transport craft, with a steely determination. With an inhuman lust for combat.
He would not let that be so. Lennard, with one hand flicked a number of switches.
Something under the dispatcher's wings cycled. Making a clicking sound as metal clanked against metal. Something else at the tip of the ship rotated into position, and screeched with excitement.
His craft surged towards those ships.
His eyes straining. Burning. Hurting.
The others would not arrive in time to relieve him.
This was his final stand. His Last Stand for these people. He was more Last Stand than these Last Stand fighters that hurtled through the air far ahead of him.
One ship, as if hearing his silent insult, broke off from the squadron and dropped, twisting and turning to meet him.
Lennard, and this strange pilot saw each other head on.
The blue craft, sligh and clean. Modern and updated.
Powerful and vicious, scarred and bruised, old black stains marking it's veterancy.
His jet, and the other surged towards each other.
With a flick of his wrist, the Dispatcher Mk3 rippled a single jet of glowing orange pellets out of it's rotary cannons towards that adversary.
In a single second, the other did the same.
A volley of glowing orange shells surging towards each other.
Lennard threw his arms to the right, sending the dispatcher into a offset spin. The jet jerking to the right, narrowly avoiding the spray of death that passed him by.
The other pilot, had done the same.
As he fell, the sun greeted him with it's full force. The blinding light struck him like a spear through the heart at every rotation of the jet's spin.
As he fell...
As Lennard fell, eyes blind. His back simply leaned into the old seat and with a kick, he jerked the flight stick back, the engines cut.
He felt the world twirl around him for the second time. He felt gravity twist and turn him. His guts sliding backwards and forwards as his ship dropped spinning.
He breathed deep. Slowly letting the force of the spin equal with gravity.
The other pilot had already rectified his spin, and was back on him.
He heard the blaring sirens of a missile. This pilot had no sense of honour.
As gravity pulled at him, and jostled for control of the jet with the force of velocity. Lennard breathed deep.
The blaring siren intensified.
Yet, he let his hands simply drop.
The distant siren song, merely carried on.
A missile has one flaw.
The same flaw as any pilot.
His eyes opened, and scanned the radar.
Object gaining. Rapidly.
Hands calm. He sat. Letting the plain fall. Listening to the spin. Feeling the direction of the plain shift, and twirl.
5.
All the strategy in the universe.
4.
Could account for many if not all scenarios.
3.
However, one thing it could not account for.
2.
The greatest thing to be.
1.
Is humanity.
0.
A simple hand slammed down, smashing a red button which simply beeped in acceptance.
A hand grasped the flight stick, and shoved it forward.
The engine burst, useless flares fired out. They were no help.
But this was.
A flurry of missiles, spewed forth from the Dispatcher's wings.
A spread of 12 spears of gleaming steel rocketed forth into the dawn.
An explosion gripped the nose of the fighter.
A terrible ripping explosion that flung the ship backwards, flipping over itself, steel spewing forth into the wind.
Yet 11 missiles flew on.
Locked onto 10 distant blue ships at the instant of their launch.
And one blue jet that now realised the folly of it's tragically close chase.
Lennard, opened his eyes. And smiled as the jet flew, falling. One last time.
His boots planted against the cockpit floor, let him force the stick backwards one last time, as he span the jet back into orientation.
The beaming sun greeted him, yet his eyes felt no sting.
He flew.
Ten distant blue fighters spread themselves off into 30 different directions. Pure terror gripping these novice pilots of the great Last Stand.
A pitty, perhaps they had only served this once.
Their only veteran, shattered into pieces, falling down around Lennard.
Yet the pilot himself was not amongst his wreckage.
Off in the distance, his parachute sailed in the explosive breeze.
YOU ARE READING
World In Turmoil
Science FictionAmongst the empires of the galaxy. Between the factions and the territories. On a rustic world left to itself. A young man had heros once... They were a force sworn to protect. They were a navy of saviours. In a time of need. ...
