The phrase [i]Hell in a Hand Basket[/i] came to mind.

What had happened to them? Once upon a time they were the feared 7th MAS Squad. Elite, exceptional, a fighting force to be reckoned with, and not this—poor decision after poor decision. Squad members out of position, emotional-fueled suicide runs by their [i]commanding officer[/i], a two-unit rescue operation resulting in re-entry and ground combat on an enemy occupied planet? Crazy. Not the good, adrenaline junkie, might-kill-yourself kind of crazy either. The kind that got everyone killed, the kind that wiped out a squad. What was everyone thinking?
Would he have done differently?

The thought caught him off-guard, came out of left field. Of course he would have—what they were doing wasn’t brave, it was [i]stupid[/i]. It was short-sighted. It would lose them this battle. But there it was, that hitch in his stomach when he thought of leaving Trapp to his fate. The thought of letting Maki get nailed by that Mk. II. The thought of leaving Gerard to the white MAS unit. Of course, he kept thinking, he’d have left them to die. That was the [i]correct[/i] answer, the [i]right[/i] one.

Right?

“Head in the game, Wizard.” He caught himself muttering, eyes flicking back to the scanners. “This is what I get for chatting up rookies.”
Damage control. There was the call to fall back, to regroup, the only call they could make at this point, but there was no way they could facilitate it with Guillotine and Gallant out there engaged by an enemy so much faster than they were. That was suicide, not retreat. At least McKnight still had a head on his shoulders, it would seem—he and Trent came to the same conclusion.
Time for some fire support.

To be honest, Trent had been phoning it in for a good while now. Not that he didn’t trust his teammates, and not that he needed to showboat, but the Coalition wasn’t used to dealing with an MAS with damage potential and range like the Mosquito. He’d mostly been on damage control while the team was in the thick of things, picking off individual units when they neared the [i]Lincoln[/i], but most of those he’d managed with more manual targeting. His Oracle system was busy churning away at the fancy new white MAS unit, analyzing thruster patterns, burst radius, acceleration/deceleration gradients…

“Sorry cogboys…” He found himself muttering with a slight smile as the little red triangulation lines flicked about his HUD, trying to keep up with the white prototype. It wasn’t easy but there [i]were[/i] patterns there—if a machine might have run completely random movements with a machine like that, a pilot was smart. They knew what worked and what didn’t, what they needed to do and when…which meant they could be predicted. Priming the gun, he focused on the enemy units main thrusters, the humming suite that had it leaping forward at such a prodigious rate. It was even faster than the Mosquito, in all likelihood…

Best case scenario, it punched through the units shield but lost enough energy to slag the cockpit proper. Worse case scenario, it punched clean through and he got chewed out for cocking up strategic resources. Worst case scenario, it did absolutely nothing thanks to some dirty-little-bitchium they’d hid in whatever the thing must have been running and he’d have a fancy fist-fight on his hands in about two and a half seconds.

Actually, he kinda liked that last one.

“I got your fire support hanging, McKnight…” He heard himself muttering, waiting until his system screamed as the juke-thrusters cut out, the moment of inertia before a momentum could be negated and reversed—
He fired.

Two points linked up in an instant, the targeting solution through rather than on to get around target lock sensors. If nothing else, he’d get its damn attention as a line of green lightning shot screamed through space at the speed of electricity. Flicking open his comm and broadcasting to the unit, he could feel his lips pull back in a familiar smile.

“Tag, wonderbread. You’re it.”