[[Posted by Cannonshop, 04-03-2010, 23:03:19]][heee!!! i'm invited!!]
HHC, 2nd Battalion, 26th Lyran Guard, Tamar..."...SLDF guys are
tough as hell..." someone commented. Hauptmann Patrick Ngo looked up from his letters to see Grimes and Baker watching the officers from the 90th Heavies inventorying ammo pallets.
"Yeah." he said, "They're tough."
One of the foreign officers, looking in that half-idle 'alert' that combat officers get, noticed him sitting at the foot of his 'mech.
The man's expression did a double-take, and he apparently got the attention of his companion.
"Uh-oh, Paddy, looks like they they saw you wrote ******' on your 'mech." Grimes commented, as the two Terran officers started walking across the quad.
"Yeah, well, they can take it up with the Liason officer, like everyone else." Pat said, and went back to reading-casually, though he watched over the top-rim of his sunglasses as the foreign officers walked over.
"Excuse me..." one of them said.
Pat looked up. "Sir?" he asked, keeping the relaxed pose, 'If it's about the chest-art, It's in-reg."
"Where are you from, son?" the taller one asked.
"Kowloon." Patrick said, "Not that I've seen it much."
Twelve Hours Later..."DIDEE MAOGODDAMMITMOVEMOVEMOVE!!!" Pat shouted over the Company frequencies as the Clanners' little toad-bastards appeared from the dust-cloud of the spaceport's outer permieter. He beaded on one of them, and triggered his PPC. the little bastads could take hits, but...
He pulled up a light-tower from the approach way, and swung it like a bat-sending one jumper tumbling off into the distance. "Fall back by ranks, lowest to highest, those dropships need
time." he scolded.
voices of assent echoed in his ears, and his status-board showed that most of his Company was moving retrograde, while the view out his cockpit showed they were still firing.
he tongued the frequency for the long-toms on the sole Fortress class still on the ground, "Grid Two One Nine, I need HE and Cluster, my position, Repeat, Repeat, Repeat, Over!"
The status-indicators showed that the tanks weren't falling back in order on his right. "Charlie Third, Get your ****** asses in GEAR, god-dammit, Mosovich, you dilly-dally and I'll have your-"
his world was white flash, heat, and pain, as something didn't just
shred his cockpit armour, but pulverized it into white-hot powder, and then, the cool air of outside wrapped around him.
the 'mech that did this, stepped around from behind the perimeter wall. Hunched and turkey-looking, with a
Marauder's arm-joints and shoulders under the box-launchers of a
Catapult and a glassine cockpit jutting from the thing's chest.
His leg-actuators were seizing on the left side...
not NOW not NOW... the thing's secondary 'chin mount' weapons licked fragments from his staggered 'mech.
"Okay, ******..." he lifted his improvised club, looked at the cracked and barely working heat-guage, and shrugged. "I got something
you can't do" He stomped his jump-pedals, bounding forward at the enemy 'mech. the artillery warning alarms sounded as the snap-crack of enemy fire echoed in his ears.
At the ending arc of the 150 meter leap, he brought the club down, and cut his jump-jets' retrofire, bringing the entire mass of his machine down as additional leverage and power.
This move took whoever was driving the MadCat by surprise-the ELED light-arrays shatttered off the thick, high-intensity alloy post, which drove down on the Clanner's ferroglas cockpit, shearing off support struts and pulverizing panes of transparent armour.
The world turned white, and he felt the thunderclaps into his bones, as the battery-strike came down.
something lanced through his chest....and it was even harder to breathe in the darkness...
Fourteen minutes after..."...dead, we got here late." The AFFC firebase had been right on the edge of the 90ths' area of responsibility, and the Tigers were the first unit to react to the Clanner probe.
Truk Tranh squatted on the edge of what was
probably the head assembly of a Griffin. He reached into the mess in the cockpit, and retrieved a set of tags.
"Patrick Ngo. Catholic, Blood Type B Negative." he read off, "There won't be any celebrating back home from this."
"You sure it's him?" Kelso asked.
"You saw him, same as I did....there can't be too many Hauptmanns named Ngo around here." Truk said it without emotion, "and none of them would probably call in artillery on their own position to cover their men." he looked at Kelso. "It's him. We gotta send him home." Truk started cutting straps, and gingerly extracted the shattered, burnt corpse from the cockpit, laying it out on a poncho-liner, "Get the ******
Chaplain, right ****** now." he said it without looking up.
"Truk, they're probably coming back..."
"I don't
care, get a ******'
Chaplain, last rites..."
Welcome Cannonshop! More great stuff! O0
Question: What was written on Ngo's 'Mech? Either you or the censotron blocked it.
Nice work and thanks for sharing. Welcome aboard and I second the request for what was on the Griffin.
"Don't ****** with the Funk." the redacted is a gutter term referring to reproductive/recreational activities that are, after some two hundered thousand years, still rather popular among humans and other mammalian forms... 'The Funk' is, of course, because Pat Ngo was a fan of a style of Rythm-pop music often played at all-night dance clubs.