Malcolm Trippen
Jun 4th, 2004, 01:32:24 PM
[YT-2400 Transport Socorro]
"Welcome home," a kind voice whispered, his hand gently resting on Malcolm's shoulder. "Well, its home for the next two weeks, anyway."
Malcolm stared at the dagger-shaped hull of the ancient Victory-class Star Destroyer. "The Dark Angel is operating out of that piece of Imperial trash?" he asked, in disbelief.
"Yeah," the Commander nodded, "Unfortunately. Seraph too. Its the only thing they had availiable this close to the shipyards."
The pilot glanced to his left, at the floating spectacle that was Kuat's Shipyards. Kilometer after kilometer of scaffold and hull streatched off into the distance. Somewhere, out there, between the floating hulks of the NR Fleet's next generation, floated three very special construction projects - one Bothan Assault Cruiser, and two Ranger-class Gunships. "Do they really think we'll be ready to go in just two weeks?"
Commander Delso shrugged. "Seraph and Dark Angel are ready. But I know very little about starships. If the fleet people say they'll be ready..." he shrugged again, "Then I guess they'll be ready."
Malcolm shook his head and sighed, rolling his YT-2400 towards the triangular grey hulk of the VSD Firestorm. "First rule of long-range trading," he muttered. "Never expect fleeters to be on-time."
* * *
[Angel Nine, three days later]
"Flight Three, this is Nine. Sound off and pair off," Malcolm ordered, banking his fighter to starboard. A quick glance at his radar screen showed that Ten was floating off his port wing. "Keep tight," he instructed his Contruum-born wingman, gently easing the throttle forward. "This may just be a training sim, but I still want to win."
"So do we all, sir."
Despite the distortion put on the comm channel for security, Malcolm could still recognise the voice of Ellen Daal, aka Angel Eleven. She was flying exactly 0.2 klicks away, and precisely half that distance behind. These kids are flying like darned robots. Malcolm let out a slight sigh. The only way they're gonna stand a chance is if the Imperials are still training their pilots like robots.
Dark Angel Squadron had been part of the New Republic for a long time. Its formation was shrouded in legend, and often got exagerated. Simple facts, however, were that 27 very brave, and very skilled A-Wing pilots had made a name for themselves. The better half of those ended up in Dark Angel, with the rest backing them up as Seraph Squadron. Unfortunately, in the 8 years since that had happened, pilots tended to get shot at. Occasionally, they got killed. Dark Angel and Seraph Squadrons were running out of original members and, as the old addage went, "The Academy don't train them like they used to." Every once in a while, a true pilot found its way into Dark Angel. But every once in a while wasn't enough.
"TIEs inbound," Angel Twelve, a Twi'lek who's name Malcolm couldn't remember, half-shouted over the comm.
What have you decided to put us up against, Maxis? Maxis was Seraph Squadron's leader. He was one of the few people still here from the original Angel/Seraph roster. Most of the others were new faces. Since Malcolm had come back out of Starfighter retirement, he'd recognised seven pilots. Seven pilots, out of 24. Had Malcolm not been Corellian, he wouldn't have liked those odds.
Twelve red dots appeared on his screen. Basic symbols flashed up beside them. Looks like a Fed squadron...Punishers. Nothing we can't handle. His grip around the fighter's controls tightened. "Lets teach these Imps how to fly properly!"
With that, he punched his throttle to full, picked the nearest aimed towards it, and waited for the beep that would tell him he was in range.
"Welcome home," a kind voice whispered, his hand gently resting on Malcolm's shoulder. "Well, its home for the next two weeks, anyway."
Malcolm stared at the dagger-shaped hull of the ancient Victory-class Star Destroyer. "The Dark Angel is operating out of that piece of Imperial trash?" he asked, in disbelief.
"Yeah," the Commander nodded, "Unfortunately. Seraph too. Its the only thing they had availiable this close to the shipyards."
The pilot glanced to his left, at the floating spectacle that was Kuat's Shipyards. Kilometer after kilometer of scaffold and hull streatched off into the distance. Somewhere, out there, between the floating hulks of the NR Fleet's next generation, floated three very special construction projects - one Bothan Assault Cruiser, and two Ranger-class Gunships. "Do they really think we'll be ready to go in just two weeks?"
Commander Delso shrugged. "Seraph and Dark Angel are ready. But I know very little about starships. If the fleet people say they'll be ready..." he shrugged again, "Then I guess they'll be ready."
Malcolm shook his head and sighed, rolling his YT-2400 towards the triangular grey hulk of the VSD Firestorm. "First rule of long-range trading," he muttered. "Never expect fleeters to be on-time."
* * *
[Angel Nine, three days later]
"Flight Three, this is Nine. Sound off and pair off," Malcolm ordered, banking his fighter to starboard. A quick glance at his radar screen showed that Ten was floating off his port wing. "Keep tight," he instructed his Contruum-born wingman, gently easing the throttle forward. "This may just be a training sim, but I still want to win."
"So do we all, sir."
Despite the distortion put on the comm channel for security, Malcolm could still recognise the voice of Ellen Daal, aka Angel Eleven. She was flying exactly 0.2 klicks away, and precisely half that distance behind. These kids are flying like darned robots. Malcolm let out a slight sigh. The only way they're gonna stand a chance is if the Imperials are still training their pilots like robots.
Dark Angel Squadron had been part of the New Republic for a long time. Its formation was shrouded in legend, and often got exagerated. Simple facts, however, were that 27 very brave, and very skilled A-Wing pilots had made a name for themselves. The better half of those ended up in Dark Angel, with the rest backing them up as Seraph Squadron. Unfortunately, in the 8 years since that had happened, pilots tended to get shot at. Occasionally, they got killed. Dark Angel and Seraph Squadrons were running out of original members and, as the old addage went, "The Academy don't train them like they used to." Every once in a while, a true pilot found its way into Dark Angel. But every once in a while wasn't enough.
"TIEs inbound," Angel Twelve, a Twi'lek who's name Malcolm couldn't remember, half-shouted over the comm.
What have you decided to put us up against, Maxis? Maxis was Seraph Squadron's leader. He was one of the few people still here from the original Angel/Seraph roster. Most of the others were new faces. Since Malcolm had come back out of Starfighter retirement, he'd recognised seven pilots. Seven pilots, out of 24. Had Malcolm not been Corellian, he wouldn't have liked those odds.
Twelve red dots appeared on his screen. Basic symbols flashed up beside them. Looks like a Fed squadron...Punishers. Nothing we can't handle. His grip around the fighter's controls tightened. "Lets teach these Imps how to fly properly!"
With that, he punched his throttle to full, picked the nearest aimed towards it, and waited for the beep that would tell him he was in range.