When someone tells you to get out the way of a WMG, you [i]move[/i].

As he careened to the side, he watched the [i]Lincoln[/i] bring it's big bang to bear and turn everything on board that last cruiser into matches. For the second time this battle he found himself whistling through his cheeks, watching the sheer [i]energy [/i]of the blast scour a line across the battlefield. If the Coalition thought their hardballers had hammers, they had a good damn ways before they caught up to the sledge on even a UEE carrier. In the aftermath of the shot, however, Trent found himself listening to the same orders as everyone else. It made about as much sense as tits on a bull to pull in and dock now and leave the Ulysses to its fate, but Thomas Trent did not believe in insubordination. You did your job and you shut up about it. 

What he [i]did[/i] believe in was prioritization and exceeding expectations. Why settle for completing one mission objective when you could have your cake an eat it too?

Ten minutes was a pretty tight timetable for departure--the Mosquito might be fast but that didn't mean the docking protocol could keep up, and an unsecured warp could damage more than just his own machine (as he'd been reminded the [i]last [/i]time he skidded in late to the party, and for the next three months of galley duty). And there was Trapp, making sure he had an eye on the rest of the squad while they made their way back in. It made sense in the way that a new squad leader telling his men to cover their asses always made sense but this was the [i]7th[/i]. Between the relatively undamaged Maki and Lin, not to mention the rest of them--

"Just go do it."

He blinked out of his slight reverie when his wingmate's channel opened up, the petite pilot's voice in his ear.

"You're going to anyway, just go do it. Trapp just wants us to cover our butts--I'll count head, you go be a jackass."

He pretended to think about it. He really did, for all of about seven microseconds, but really he was already breaking away from their formation with the Hellcat--9:35, 34, 33 and counting--while his lips curled into a smile. "Being awful nice to me today, Rabbit."

"We'll see how nice I am when I tell them all it was your idea." She said cheerfully, closing the link and forming up with Maki as well to keep an eye on the hanger approach for the rest of the team. Flicking his thumb to the active 7th Squad Channel, he highlighted the first frigate in his targeting computer and moved for his solution.

"Back in a bit, Mama Trapp, I'm going fishing. Don't worry about the kids, they've got babysitters. See you in ten boys and girls, I got a rookie to show off for." He added for good measure--it wouldn't do for the commander to think he was ignoring him, would it?--before focusing on his task. This had to be done right, and it had to be done fast.

It made sense in a suicidal, are-you-watching-closely kind of way. Plasma guns could punch through armor like no one's business, but it was the spread of the P170's that made hardballers such a bitch. They would blast open large enough sections of hull that even a capital ship would start hemorrhaging, breaching multiple levels and causing a whole mess of trouble. In contrast, the Arbalest was only really dangerous to the big boys if the ship schematics were known--a through-and-through could be pretty easily contained unless there happened to be something vital in the middle.

But a frigate does not a capital ship make, and after the [i]Lincoln's[/i] deck cannon barrage the pair were already running their shield's broad to avoid the debris--they would never have the density to disperse the Arbalest, and it could fire from far enough away [i]fast[/i] enough to still give him time to get back in time. A little fancy footwork, a little flyboy prowess, just a dash of reckless disregard for mortality and the human condition...

"Cut power to Tesla Drive and main thrusters." He muttered aloud, thinking and calculating as the tiny microphone in the sensors picked it up and began dropping energy levels before his eyes. "Divert to relays 3, 4 and 6."

It had to be, he knew, in the wake of the WMG's blast. If it hadn't cleared the field it had sure blown a path through it, and as he enhanced the view of the first frigate his right thumb was already spinning up the power flow to the weapon proper.The calm before the storm, while the enemy was still taking count of the losses from the [i]Lincoln[/i] and the firing lane was still clear. Tom had always simultaneously envied and disliked fire-and-forget missile weaponry--there was an elegance to a straight shot that he appreciated, even if targeting became a pain in the ass pretty quickly. Ordinarily his concern would be that a stray piece of debris or an MAS would interfere at a critical moment critical moment given the distance, but in the wake of the blast...

"Bye-bye, birdie."

The boys in R&D had made a big deal about how far the Arbalest could actually maintain its cohesive punch. Assuming nothing dense enough obstructed the blast and it's targeting laser could find a something to open an ion channel at, it could accurately link two points kilometers apart at the speed of electricity without losing much power. When he fired for the frigate, the full blast from the Arbalest streamed through the weakened void shielding like it wasn't there, boring through the armor on the vessel with little more resistance. There was a moment's pause before the other side of the ship erupted, a thick beam of plasma briefly flashing clean through the frigate before the targeting sensors lost the feed and it dissipated. Neatly cored, it was barely a moment more before chain reaction started--the explosion was inevitable, but Tommy wasn't about to hang around to watch

Funny thing about painting a great big 'here I am' line across the battlefield...

"Full power to thrusters." He spat sharply, pinned to his seat as the bars on his HUD reversed swiftly. He shot straight up to gain 'altitude' over the battle--skilled as most pilots were, they still tended to think on their own plane, which bought him a little time--7:27, 26, 25...

"Frigate alpha down. Still on schedule." He chimed in merrily to the bridge before quickly flicking off his mike. [I]Technically[/i] he was fulfilling every one of his orders--he was going to take the frigates down, make it back in ten minutes--7:03, 02, 01, 6:59--and make sure his team makes had a clear enough run home by giving the bag guys something way more fun to chase. All he had to do was ignore the yammering and focus on the job at hand, the chatter blending into white noise as he bantered with himself.

"Dinner time, boys, come and get it..." He muttered  as his lock sensors started going crazy, hopelessly slow missiles streaking towards him through space as slugs began to pepper the sky around him. The Mosquito was a bitch to get a lock on, it's movements as erratic as its namesake, but as he struck out above the field of operations proper it was clear enough he'd succeeded in drawing some attention.

It would only take one lucky hit from the wrong kind of round. He could handle a few slugs but a plasma round to the wrong spot would leave him crippled, unable to get back in time.

And he had no illusions that they would wait up, even for him.

The second frigate was going to be a chore--with its front-heavy armor he would have to get a good enough angle above it to avoid burning too much energy getting through. He was in luck, though--the [i]Lincoln's[/i] guns had done their job and knocked both its shield and it's port thruster out. From half a battlefield away it was limited to clumsy heavier weapons better spent on bigger targets--it was relying on its escort, just like he'd hoped it would, and they'd been too far away and too decimated by proximity to the WMG to respond immediately after the loss of the first frigate even if they identified him as a real threat. But the enemy had seen his hand, could tell the solution he was heading for--the age old adage of 'shoot where he's going to be, not where he is' was not working in his favor, and he swore mildly as he watched tracer rounds, bolts of plasma and a Mark III and its attache ride out to cut him off. Even if his Targe was still up and running--a quick flick of the eyes showed it was still recharging--it would never have sustained that, and having cut him off they were rapidly adjusting. His targeting array was already providing new solutions, a superimposed schematic of the vessel appearing with calculated lines for its reactor streaking through it like a spray of acupuncture needles. He bought time with a burst to the side--5:35, 34, 33--holding his breath as his system struggled to find another viable--

"Gotcha." He breathed out, tightening his core and jerking the controls sharply down and at an angle. The only viable approach was on the ship's starboard side, the angle much further down than he'd intended to go but it would have to do. It would take time for them to adjust their targeting--maybe one MAS in a hundred could make turns that sharp with the right pilot--and he just had to hope it would be enough. It would be a matter of inertia and timing, cutting power and coasting to pump enough juice through to the Arbalest to do the job. The Tesla drive was engaged, autocalculations keeping his vector steady as the targeting computer's hard drive struggled to keep up. He was a comet, a bright little streak through the sky, that thin red line approaching at break neck--

Lightning.

The g-force of the sudden stop was enough to crack his helmet against the side of his unit, his chest bruising against the straps of his flight seat as every jet the Tesla drive had access too blared to life to halt the frictionless skid. But the machinery held true--the plasma bridged the gap in the blink of an eye, melted through the armor and punched into the core before the inertial slide was too much and pushed him out of alignment. It wasn't the clean through and through of the other ship, but it would be enough.

3:00. 2:59. 2:58.

He was already turning on the dime, already rerouting the energy to his thrusters when the slug struck his leg, the impact registering in a quick blare of red. The void around him began streaking with tracer rounds and he turned into one himself, another brilliant streak in the dark hurtling back towards the [i]Lincoln [/i].

This was the dangerous part--the Mosquito was fast, but if he was going to make it back to the hangers he was going to need to be [i]really [/i]fast. Straight-line fast, which meant an easy target for a good computer or a great pilot, and already he was starting to feel the chips of glancing shells, his readouts pinging the sustained damage.

"Frigate bravo down." He reported in distractedly, eyes on the prize. "Still on schedu--[i]fuck[/i]." It took an awful lot to make Tom swear on an official channel, but it happened now and then. Now, in particular, as a hot green flash of lucky plasma seared through one of the Mosquito's shoulders, a dispersed blast that melted a clean hole through the left arm. The feedback through the unit wasn't pleasant--the Mosquito utilized a radial feedback mechanism that had his whole arm buzzing from the damage--but he was very, very lucky. The worst thing that could have happened just then would have been to lose function in the thrusters, but as he slid ever so slightly to the side he was grateful--

Nevermind, not so grateful. The plasma had fried some of the systems in the forward braking jets, which ordinarily wouldn't have been a problem...except for the fact that he still had to get [i]in[/i] the [i]Lincoln[/i].

1:25. 1:24. 1:23.

"Hangar bay, this is Mr. Wizard...I'll be coming in awful hot. How about you sit tight in those units for a spell, don't want anyone going crispy-critter on me..." He reported in, cool as a cucumber. If you didn't know him, you would never be able to tell just how much his cheeks hurt from smiling. This was not good--at this rate he would plow straight through, and without the front thrusters there was no way he was going to slow himself down in time. The microjets were doing their job, but not nearly fast enough...

[i]Targe system operational[/i].

"Fat lot of good that does..." He started before blinking at what he was seeing in front of him--the wreckage from one of the Ferirs, still mostly in tact. Maybe... just maybe...

"Targe engage!" He spat as he angled for it, eyes on the prize. If he struck it right--there, where the middle had been carved up by Gerard, the left arm destroyed and the center of it vulnerable--and braced his good arm over the cockpit...

The impact was deafening. His shield barely held together, and even then the impact of metal on metal roared around the pilot. It was a credit to the Tesla drive that it managed to correct his course through the affair, microjets automated to make the minor adjustments necessary for even an impact like that to be glossed over in stride. It had definitely broken some of his momentum, and if there was significant damage to the armor of his arms and chest the mechanics beneath them kept going strong. Without his forward thrusters he couldn't break, but he still had a trick up his sleeve.

"Activate urban combat accelerators." He muttered, eyes fixed on the hangar bay door. (0:33, 0:32. 0:31...) The Ferir had slowed him but he was still coming in too fast, too hot...and so at the last moment he spun and blared the engines full throttle for almost a second, scorching across the airlock shielding and briefly roasting the inside of it before flicking them off just as the door behind him snapped shut. His MAS skidded back across the metal on its heels, leaving dark streaks and long scratches in the bottom of the ship, but as he passed from nothing to oxygen the rotary accelerator jets caught the gas and fired full-bored. Designed for use close to sensitive targets the jets were powerful enough to keep it aloft and maneuver the beast without using the full aerial suite of controls, and in the closed space they and Tom's good friend friction managed to slow him down just enough for the impact with the hangar bay door proper to shatter neither his unit nor the door itself.

And he was in.

"Daddy's home, let's get the hell out!" He called over the coms, wasting no time in setting the Mosquito into its cradle, the machines slipping out to do their jobs. He was glad no one was in the cockpit with him, because the shit-eating grin on his face was nothing less than disgusting. Another day, another near-death experience. The air was so thin when your margin of error could be measured in molecules, and he breathed it in like it could have been his last.

God [i]damn[/i] did he need a cigarette.

As he slipped out of the MAS unit proper to rejoin his comrades, he couldn't quite manage to wipe the smile entirely off his face as he settled to the ground. He could have [i]died[/i]. He [i]almost[/i] died.

But he hadn't, and it wasn't because of goddamn luck. 

"Down girl." He managed with a laugh, catching Yuu by the shoulder and spinning her around as he approached, drawing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with his other hand as he drew her back towards the unit. "Guess nobody ever taught you not to touch the trim, huh?"

But it was the rookie's show, really--she'd shown her stuff, flown with the best, killed herself a man or two and looked good doing it. If everyone else was going to admonish her for it that was their call, but Tom Trent liked his rookies a little bit wild.

Fly or die. Trapp said it himself.

"Looks like I backed the right horse." He winked to the newcomer, not quite able to maintain the same somber demeanor as his companions as he pat Yuu on the back gently by way of release. Snapping a hand to the bottom of his pack, he popped up a cigarette and lit it in the same slick motion, the kind of maneuver that came from starting young and never quitting. With a glance to Trapp, he managed to make his look just the tiniest bit sheepish as he measured the man's reaction, wondering if he was going to explode or let it all go. His drawl, when it came through, was surprisingly pronounced.

"So how far in the dog house am I, Commander?"