[center][h3]LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN [color=ff4136]"COMMIE"[/color][/h3][/center]
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A flash, high above the orbital plane, barely visible out the corner of Kilmer's perception while he was busy defending against the next salvo of sledgehammers. Maybe a second to react at most— more likely a mere fraction of that, but time seemed to stretch and shorten in even if unpredictable measure in the heat of battle, once blood raced. He [i]threw[/i] the Shrike into a tight bank off to the left, verniers burning furiously, and scrambled for the comms line.

[color=ff4136]<<Sorrels, break righ—>>[/color]

Not enough time.  Never enough time, as the lance of frigid blue burned through miles to impale the one-armed Sparrow before his eyes. The ensign had been dead from the moment the glimmer from on high had shown... no. From the moment he'd even hailed the reinforcements their trio of Sentries had gotten in he and Rook.

[color=ff4136][i]"Shit."[/i][/color] he clicked his tongue after striking through the line for a brief second, whirling his bird away from incoming fire on two angles as the newly-arrived Fafnir loosed more shots to carve through the lead destroyer, and the three remaining Fenrirs tried to capitalize on the sudden confusion from behind the hulk of the carcass, still harassing Braide even as he counted down the missiles they sent downrange at the Shrike. This was bad, and it would sure as hell get [i]worse[/i] if he lost tempo. When he restrung the comms feed, he all but punched the switch as he came out of the spiral a short distance from the Venator.

[color=ff4136]<<Alright Rook, change in plans. We've got big game to hunt. Can't leave him to cut up the destroyers on this flank or he'll punch a hole in the whole fleet— but these guys come first. Slender, Denim!>>[/color] he called, patching in the remaining Sentries and cutting through whatever chatter the sudden loss of their third might have spooled up with a sharp, authoritative tone. He didn't know these boys well, but he'd seen sudden, unheralded death like that shellshock dozens of pilots in his Naginata and Sparrow days— the best thing to maintain course was feeding an immediate plan of action before panic could set in.

Not lost on him was how the same might be able to be said for Rookie, who he knew damn well had just logged his first kill moments ago. This might have been his first death, too. As much as he wanted to redline it right onto the new arrival, he needed to know if his ward for the day was going to be up to the task of diving headlong into what had to be an enemy ace. After the stunt that had gotten them here, he couldn't leave him to his own devices if he wanted him alive— so when he got the taste of the Fafnir he wanted, he'd have to drag the kid along for the ride.

None of these concerns, however, could be fielded until they dealt with the threat that was focused on punching holes through [i]them[/i] directly.

[color=ff4136]<<We're lobster clawing these three and getting the hell out of here! Braide and I'll flush them out of position from up top, you two dip below the hull and get ready to nail them with your Claymores!>>[/color]

The Lobster Claw was an old standby in the UEE playbook, as memorable a name as any for a vertical pincer. Similar to a Thach weave in certain principles, it made good use of misdirection in that same classic trick; one element baiting the enemy and the second hooking them. All three of the pilots he'd just asserted impromptu command over ought to have drilled it incessantly over the course of MAS curriculum— and referring back to old training would allow it that much quicker a takeover. This way, they could use the cover the Fenrirs had chosen against them, concealing the two Sentries' approach while behind the radar curtain of an entire destroyer's hull.

[color=ff4136]<<Let's mosey, people. Engaging!>>[/color]

A burst of white-hot thruster burn, and the Shrike rocketed forward, lifting an arm and loosing multiple 50mm rounds at what hints of the Fenrirs poked out of cover to send autocannon fire towards it and the Venator, crushing the gap even as its pilot threw himself into the controls to sway and weave past their rounds while maintaining course.

All the while, he kept the radar picture of what lied ahead at the back of his mind. The rest of the 7th were all pretty tied up in their own ordeals at the moment— Sab especially seemed to delight in keeping Hex busy with all the Garmr on her tail. Not ideal. They needed to figure out a way to scramble that Fafnir's targetting systems, radar picture, [i]something[/i] to keep its heavy beam cannon out of the picture until they could make a proper intercept. He had the speed. He had the maneuverability. He had high, high hopes for the fact that fate had thrown this thing on the flank he'd [i]needed[/i] to be at—

His brow knit, and his icy eyes darted between each of his three least favorite coalies at the minute as the beam saber in the Shrike's right hand roared to life again. All the more reason the four of them that were left on this flank needed to get rid of this Fenrir trio [i]now[/i].