#4 - Journal Lt. Commander Dag Yaga

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#4 - Journal Lt. Commander Dag Yaga

Postby vemlich » Thu Aug 28, 2014 10:40 pm

Lt. Commander Dag Yaga

Fleet Commander: Fleet 19 of the Rallebian Empire: Missile Brig Fleet

Spent the last few hours inspecting ships and their cargo. One Cargo, One Missile. A one kiloton punch sitting 2.4 meters below your feet. It is amazing what those tech guys come up with. I like this part of the mission sequence. All alone, on a spacewalk. Just me, fuel, and tons of refined Rubidium ore. (And whatever they have in that missile that goes….. boom). These missiles are beauts. Tech guys have slimmed this generation of missiles down to be stealthier. Too bad you bleepin ABMs. You can see the seams where the housing will break off and the missile will gain speed; racing from outer atmosphere to the target on the surface.

I met earlier with all of my pilots. My wingman Greta Mortin is pissed we don’t have any fighter escorts on this mission. You piss of one of those Milionite women..Someone upstairs is going to hear about this. Even if they don’t want to. But, not a better wingman.

Packing limited Space Rations. These deep space hangers are the worst for food. Techy guys come up with new and improved, cool ways to blow stuff up, but can never improve space rations. I wonder why? I believe they are smuggled REAL surface food all the time. Therefore, there is no need to improve their food. Well, I will keep that thought to myself. Chap the ass of a tech guy, when you hit the launch button, for some unknown “mechanical failure” you will be launched from the cockpit. That is the fear anyway. Treat them like a best friend, and you’ve got a best friend. So, just to be safe, I had a half case of Quitik rot gut sent down to the tech guys with a note,
Half now, half when we return: Yaga.
Never let a Rallebian Drink while he’s working. Rallebians say they can hold their liquor, but everyone knows they can’t. Tell one of these guys they can’t; next thing you know they are trying to loot your sister.

Inspection Complete.

Our final mission meeting is brief. Everyone does their own thing to mentally prep for the mission. For some of us, this may be the last face you see. Make sure the last face you see is your best friend.

As you crawl into your Missile Brig, no one says a word. It is kind of humbling to see your name painted beneath your canopy, especially for the first time. You’re in a ship the same size as the missile you are carrying. Screw-ups are unforgiving.

We will fly to subsector deep space and await launch orders. – Radio Silence – after we leave the bay. I hate radio silence. Waiting in the void of space, silently, is kind of redundant. The silence plays tricks on your mind. But after the incident of the Barva System, Reg 144.2.6, and I quote, “No personal music devices or electronics are allowed on ships carrying missiles.” We have a bet going, if your missile gets blown up first you’re buying lunch when we get back. Real food.. like the tech guys get.

Orders Received. Your Board lights up, and the countdown begins. Nervous energy fills your body. This is where your training kicks in. If something goes wrong you have very little time to fix it. I hope we don’t need our training today.
My name should have been Jack Striker, something more hard core, more daring. I could have been a striker for a futbol team. (Truly the only sport to be played in all five galaxies). Or, a striker for a Baronage team. Plakavian women swoon over those guys.
You can feel the vibration from the mechanical movement as the Brig releases its cargo. Pieces moving like a well-rehearsed ballet: In sync. Precise. (Thank you tech guys. One case well spent).
You see the nose of your missile for just a second before you see nothing but a swarm of rocket engines streaking towards the planet.
You wait to see what your panel says. You age like a dog while waiting.
ABMS launching. Greta’s missile was intercepted first.
-“I thought those new rockets were supposed to be stealthier than the last generation. I may have to buy lunch, but someone is going to lose a bottle of Quitik rot gut over this”.
“Radio Silence Greta”
“I think they know were knocking”. You can feel the anger in her voice. But you will never know if it is because her missile didn’t reach its target, or because she has to buy lunch.
Yes, a series of missiles moving tends to give your position away.
“Good point Greta, Let’s go Home”.
The explosions cast silhouettes and make strange shadows, even from 700,000 kilometers. The brighter the explosions the less damage the missile does. It is those ghostly, dimly lit explosions you want to see. You are fixated on it. You know every faint glow means victory.

On the way back we pass the grunts. 4 Heavy Transports flanked by battle cruisers on either side. Now there is a fine piece of Technology. If those things could launch missiles, my whole squad would be out of a job.

I wonder if they get personal electronic devices.

Time to go home. Greta’s buying.
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