Gold Leader is Down.
The still of the forest was interrupted by the low rumbling hiss of the BTL-E4 torpedo-bomber. General Aurek Hulmisch, commander of the Alliance 7th Tactical Bombardment Wing, glided along in the sixty-foot machine at Mach 0.5. This was a simple survey mission, checking up on reports of CSA and Imperial troop movements in the area. True, the Rangers on the ground hardly needed air-support, but the presence of enemy troops this far from any strategic area concerned the local defense commanders.
The BTL-E4, while not intended for reconaissance, did have extended range and a ground-survey package as part of the bombsight. Besides, flying over the verdant forest was most relaxing after bombing the Imperial Shipyards at Kuat. Trying to dodge the inverted hailstorm of ground fire and shake off enemy Interceptors while maintaining course to the Initial Point was a challenge for the best bomber pilot.
The survey camera display beeped. Hulmisch noticed several shapes picked up by the infra-red scan. He started the camera recording and throttled down on the twin K-142 turbine engines, dropping to treetop level for another sweep.
An alarm buzzer sounded. Hulmisch glanced at his port-side control panel. The active-scan radar had detected something else in the skies with him. He set the radar to automatic tracking and quickly found the source; a surface-to-air missile. He armed the chaff launcher and switched the radar display over to his robotic eye.
The first chaff pod shot from the rear of the bomber, detonating in a cloud of iron dust and magnesium flares, designed to attract radar-guided and heat-seeking missiles, respectively. True to form, the missile altered course, turning into the cloud and exploding. Hulmisch felt the detonation through his seat, despite being a few-hundred yards away by now. By the deafening report, he knew exactly what he was facing. "Great; they've got concussion rockets!" Apart from CEC quad-guns, they were were the only true threat to the Koensayr BTL-series fighter-bombers.
Increasing speed to Mach 1, Hulmisch circled back to follow the rocket's exhaust trail. Another shot up toward, so he abruptly checked his course and armed the twin autocannons mounted on the bomber's nose. He checked the forward gunsight, set the cannons for their highest rate of fire.
Rechecking his approach angle, he pressed the trigger beneath his left thumb. A quick burst of orange tracers spewed forth in two parallel rows. The rocket continued blindly into the line of fire, detonating with a visible shockwave.
Hulmisch climbed to five-hundred feet, turning back toward the clearing from which the missiles came. He could see a squad of Imperial soldiers milling about, guarding a work crew that appeared to be defoliating the area. Arriving, he cut out the main engines. The thirty-five ton craft hovered, poised like a dagger about to stab downward. He pressed the firing trigger.
The orange blips cut down most of the troopers where they stood, scattering the others into the woods. The box-type rocket launcher crumpled under the gunfire, its power generator blowing out with a dark-blue flash.
The bomber rotated in the air, Hulmisch searching for more targets, when it was knocked sideways by an explosion. Several alarms buzzed in the cockpit, the forward display indicating a failure of the starboard engine's cooling system. "Must've hit the exposed coolant line to the forward radiators. Damn lucky shot."
A cloud of steam billowed from the punctured, enveloping the bomber and obscuring this new threat. "Probably a heavy repeater, maybe a field gun." He frantically flicked switches, trying to start the backup cooling system, but even with its redundant systems, the BTL was too damaged to continue. "I've survived Balmorra, I've survived the Kuati Shipyards, I've survived Yavin, I am not going to die on some damn survey overflight!" The cooling jacket of the starboard engine burst apart in a cloud of steam and shrapnel. Hulmisch pulled the landing gear release handle, and the bomber came down on a pile of brush.
Hulmisch pushed up the canopy and shut off the Emergency Beacon; he had attracted enough attention. He strapped the flare launcher to his thigh, retreived his Borstel DR-9 carbine from its storage slot, and cautiously stepped out.
The cannon fired from beyond the opposite edge of the clearing, and Hulmisch dove off the far side of the fuselage just as a shell hit the tilted canopy, shattering the Peritex windows. He peered over the bomber's nose, making an improvised bench rest for his carbine. He clicked the selector to single-fire, sighted, and fired. There were small explosions and shouting across the clearing, and the cannon responded, forcing his to duck as its shots bounced off the heavy hull plating.
Crawling to the bomber's midsection, Hulmisch opened a small storage bin in the hull and made a quick uniform change. Removing the bright orange flight suit, he replaced it with his olive-green fatigues and tucked the white blast vest under his jacket. Slinging the carbine across his back, he clipped a few fragmentation grenades to his belt, then unfolded his green and red officer's cap; night was falling and his sparse blond hair was insufficient for the cold.
Hulmisch decided to creep around the edge of the clearing and approach the gun position from the flank. Once out of the floodlights left in the clearing, he realized just how dark it had become; he must have crossed the ecliptic during his flight. Beneath the broadleaf canopy, he had to wait a few minutes before his eyes adjusted. Through his field glasses he could make out six soldiers left near the gun emplacement.
A volley of gunshots rang out. Hulmisch instinctively hit the ground and rolled into a shallow depression. Glancing out from under a log, he could only make out rifle flashes and smoke. He ducked back again a terrified scream came from the gun emplacement. There was a deafening roar, a few cracks, and the scream ended in a wet splatter. Hulmisch flinched as he pictured the soldiers being devoured by some hulking beast. He waited until all was silent before resuming his careful creeping.
He stood up slowly to find an MerSonn E-11 carbine in his face; he reflexively swatted it away. As it fell to the ground, Hulmisch could see its owner's arm still attatched to it, torn away at the shoulder. Upon entering the clearing again, he saw the soldiers' fate. Some of their helmets were crushed like nutshells--along with the skulls inside. Limbs were wrenched from their sockets, throats torn open, the immediate vicinity strewn with bits of gore. In some places, the struggle had stirred up the bloody ground into mud. The soldiers' uniforms showed claw-marks, sets of four parallel gashes moving in a gentle curve.
Despite all of his combat duty, this macabre scene was too much for the Wing Commander. For the first time, he truly understood what General Kristoff Szemakker had told him about how "you can't really know battle without walking through it." He doubled over and became reacquainted with his last trip to the Flight Mess.
Regaining his composure, he turned to face a rustling behind him, carbine ready at the elbow. A small black feline with a disproportionately-large head was sitting on the chest of a decapitated soldier, its muzzle flecked with crimson. Seeing Hulmisch, it hopped to the ground, shook its fur, then licked its forepaws and proceeded to wash its face. Hulmisch reached forward with his left hand, letting the carbine dangle by its shoulder-strap. He cautiously knelt down to stroke the kitten when it mewed, hissed softly, and darted away into the underbrush.
Hulmisch burst out laughing. How could such a cute little fluffy creature be responsible for this orgy of carage? But then he noticed the tracks in the mud.
They stood out rather well from the scuffmarks of the soldiers' boots. They had the conventional feline layout, front and rear paws with well-defined toe- and heelpads. The ones left by the kitten were about an inch wide. The others, the same general shape, were wider than his own bootprint.
There was another rustling in the brush. Clearly rattled, Hulmisch fired a flare into the general direction of the noise. There was a roar, and a massive cat, easily seven feet from head to hind, leapt over the bushes and charged him. He fell off to the side as the cat thundered past, skidding to a stop on the soft ground. Almost without thinking, Hulmisch got up to his knees and fired the DR-9 on full automatic, running through the entire magazine. In stupified horror, he saw the shots disappear into the matte black fur, without any visible effect.
The cat charged again, swiping at the carbine. It was torn from his grasp and sent spinning through the air. With the same motion, the cat caught Hulmisch in the torso with the back of its paw, with a sharp popping sensation deep within his chest. He stumbled backward from the power of the blow, then tripped and slammed his head on a tree stump. The cat stalked slowly toward him as he labored to regain his breath, his vision flickering from color to black-and-white, the taste of blood at the back of his throat.
The cat yowled quietly, displaying its rust-stained, three-inch canines, its muzzle like a bolt-cutter. Before blacking out, Hulmisch felt himself being lifted by the front of his jacket, like an infant suspended in a blanket, the cat's hot breath against his chest...