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[color=39b54a][i]S.U.B.J.E.C.T:[/i][/color] Sergeant Anan Ihejirika

[color=39b54a][i]VITALS:[/i][/color] [color=ed1c24]||||||||||||||||||||[/color] 100%

[color=39b54a][i]REGISTERED INJURIES:[/i][/color] N/A

[color=39b54a][i]WEAPON SYSTEM:[/i][/color] M19A78 98MM Multi-Purpose Thermal Launcher

[color=39b54a][i]AMMUNITION COUNT:[/i][/color] 07 / 07

[color=39b54a][i]REGISTERED INVENTORY:[/i][/color] N/A

[color=39b54a][i]GPS LOCATION:[/i][/color] Dropship, over New Portland.

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I never liked the 'tin-chatter', a term I used to describe the outwardly calm but inwardly nervous small talk a team would conduct when within the confines of their carrier. Whether a land based APC, a seaborne craft, or an orbital dropship, it was always the same: irrelevant. There was only one reason for it, and that was to take one's mind off the impending battle. 

That's why I never partook. I was no warrior, that was for certain, but I wasn't afraid either. All men are born, and all men die, and that has pretty much been my philosophy since the Cunningham Disaster back on Plutora IV. Heroes and cowards shared an equal lot in that fight, I saw a lot of good and bad soldiers die, but I also saw a lot of them survive. Whether you were a gung-ho Captain, leading your men from the front towards a machinegun nest, or a cowardly back-camper at the rear of the assault, in the end it was just a maths game. You both had an equal chance of living or dying, and I'd seen nothing to contradict my theory. 

Looking out the window, I saw the smouldering metropolis of New Portland. Black plumes rose from between skyscarpers, bright lights flashed in the streets below and little dots moved back and forth. The battle was in full swing, and we were about to gate crash. 

The dropship shuddered violently, and my stomach sunk into itself as the pilot performed an evasive manoeuvre-- I soon saw why. A warhead, roughly the shape of a clenched fist - possibly a 98MM Thermal - streamed past the window. I'd of flinched, but I knew the missile had gone wide. Thermal launchers were great weapons, easy to use and destructive, but their multi-tracking capability reduced their finesse. I'd had a dozen birds dodge my judgement in the past; they'd always leave it until the last second before moving out of the way. That was the trick, see? Move fast, but not too early, you want to deny the warhead its chance to turn in on you. 

The warhead exploded some distance behind the dropship, I had heard it, but not felt it. A total miss. 

And then, looking back down at New Portland, I saw more of them streaming towards us; black balls trailed by orange plumes. I'd of yelled a warning, but the pilot would have seen what I was seeing, and would already be performing the necessary manoeuvres-- and as for the others? The less of them that knew the amount of danger we were in just by being in the air, the better. 

I reached back, and pulled my launcher from its holster. Without the cylinder behind me, I sunk into my seat a few inches and released a sigh. Sitting against a wall with a solid object between you and it got quite uncomfortable after a while. The magazine was already inserted, but not primed - and I wouldn't prime it yet either. Best to wait until I was on the ground, in-case the turbulence jolted my hand and I ended up taking out the whole dropship. 

Warheads started to explode all around us, as the city grew closer. The dropship shook violently from some of the nearer misses, but the pilot seemed to be negotiating the way with ease. I just hoped they didn't bring anything heavier or more purpose-based against us, because then we were in trouble. 

And then on que, I heard one of the flare pods release at the rear of the dropship. Either the pilot had run out of room to manoeuvre the incoming salvos, or something more effective had targeted us.