Freyja 'Valkyrie' Svensdotter

As quick as the initial plan of attack worked, it soon went south, like a grenade in a hand basket, or something like how the saying goes. Three boats were still in the fight, there formation changing to her tactics, however they were still on course for the convoy and things were starting to get close, especially as now she was the only plan left to engage them. “Dam It” she cursed, not that anyone would hear her anger as it was not broadcast down the radio, she monitored where her fellow pilot went down, she chimed in on the radio to the team. “This is Cobalt 7; Cobalt 8 is down….” There was quite a lengthy silence. “Confirm, no chute deployment, over.” There was a hint of annoyance in her voice, she was flight lead for flight two, and she lost a pilot under her command.

For now, though she re-focused, she could dwell on what if’s another time, the convoy was ship in danger from the enemy boats and they were getting close, too close for Valks comfort. Re-positing herself for another attack run, she knew now more fire would come her way being the only fighter left for the enemy to concentrate on, but this didn’t faze her, switching over to her IRIS-T missiles, her plan to go in hard and fast, using the gripen’s advanced tracking systems to multi target the small boats, Circling round, Valkyrie came at them from their six o’clock, low and fast, throttling up another larger rooster tail of water behind her, the warning systems warning her to pull up.

Tracking the targets on her system she would need to engage swiftly, switching targets as quickly as possible to shoot at one target after another in rapid succession. Before she knew it, tracers and other small arms fire came her way, she kept herself cool, calm and collected. Closing in on her targets, soon the sound went off that she had locked on. “Cobalt 7, Fox two.” Within seconds her first missile fired. Switching to the second target, again she fired. “Cobalt 7, fox two” the return fire was intense as heck. One problem with a tactic thought was her speed, she Zeroes in on the final boat far two quick and the locking on signal went off.

Thinking quickly, valk switched to her main gun, she let fly with her own bullets at the last remaining enemy boat, the convoy was close, they could probably see the fight without binoculars by now. The other two boats suddenly exploded from her missiles within a few seconds of one another, debris went flying as the wrecks slowed, still floating but in a ball of flames. The engage in fire though soon paid dividends as once she heard the lock on from a shoulder mounted Igla missile, several of her round mowed through the guy wielding it, as he fell back collapsing on the deck of the small craft, the missile fire, not fully needing a line of sight to fire, incidentally it fires of inside of the ship and it exploded from within, forcing Valk to suddenly pull up and adjust her throttling to compensate.

All the enemy boats had been accounted for and dealt with, still the operation did not go fully to plan, they lost a pilot, cobalt’s squad lead was damaged, this was not what she would call an ideal outcome for the mission sure the objectives seemed to be done but it was at a cost. She only hoped the recon mission had more success in getting vital intel. Throttling down to a more suitable speed, Valk leaned slight to the left as she performed a flyby of the convoy, observing the deck she could see people on the decks celebrating and waving as she went by. “This is cobalt 7 to cobalt 1-1, All enemy vessels accounted for and eliminated, continuing to escort the convoy, over.” Despite the crews looking like they are celebrating, valks contained any enthusiasm, it probably sounded like it on the radio to, for her there was not much to celebrate in terms of loses, sure she was happy they protected the convoy, it is probably cold and calculating, but Valk felt the loss was unacceptable, and more likely the team will end up with replacements to fill their ranks. She then heard the radio chatter. “You guys good up there?” Need any assistance, over?”.

@Letter Bee@Smike@Rhona W

Aurélie toggled the detachment push on her radio. "Good work, Cobalt 2. I confirm seven repeat seven helos and multiple triple alpha. I'm picking up search radar but no targeting. Could just mean they're smarter than we think and they're not switching on until they have a decent shot. With how they just performed I am not betting against it."

Her voice was terse, with much less of her usual singing accent in it. The enemy had taken out two of their squadron in the first set of contacts. This would not be easy, and it would get even harder with the loss of capability.

Aurélie's mind raced through the permutations. Cobalt was down, effectively, two strike and one air superiority fighters. Dealing with the bases was going to be a pain. They would need to make multiple sorties, peel back the defences gradually, against an enemy that was quite capable of taking a toll on them. It would hinge not only on pilot skill, but the ability of Shattered Steel's maintainers and logisticians, to keep up their sortie levels enough to get the job done.

It wasn't a bet Aurélie was entirely comfortable making, but it was the only game in the house. Sometimes you just had to accept the odds and deal with it the best you could. Or, as the Ami liked to say, "suck it up".

"All right, Cobalt 2, I'm calling part 1 done. Let's get over to Lampedusa. You fly top cover this time, and I'll do the close pass."

@Smike

Over the Mediterranean Sea; approximately 20 miles West of Malta
March 13th 2014

The last L-59 pilot was brave, and skillful; they weaved the spritely little jet expertly onto the Tomcat's tail, jockeying into position to unleash a burst of gunfire and kill the stricken, much larger bird.
Mykhailo rocketing up into position with his 20mm blazing drove the light jet off, rounds punching through it's starboard wing and a trail of debris streaming in its' wake as it broke off, darting away from the hunting F-16.

"Cobalt 1-1, you doing all right?!" Mykhailo asked Captain Scott and Kat through the radio. "I'm going to lower my altitude in case the enemy has any more surprises - Someone has to protect the convoy! Any news from Recon Team and Flight 2, by the way?"

Scott's reply was strained as he wrestled the ASF-14, trying to keep the jet in the air as it slowly died, piece by piece.
"Hnn- yeah, Brightspark. Just fine over here; KK and I have got this just peachy. Twin engine fighter on one engine; it's no biggie. Half of it being on fire is just an extra bit of excitement, that's all".

As Myk declared his intention to give the convoy a close escort, the AWACS operator chimed in

Freyja 'Valkyrie' Svensdotter

“This is cobalt 7 to cobalt 1-1, All enemy vessels accounted for and eliminated, continuing to escort the convoy, over.” Despite the crews looking like they are celebrating, Valk contained any enthusiasm, it probably sounded like it on the radio too. For her there was not much to celebrate in terms of losses. Sure she was happy they protected the convoy, it is probably cold and calculating, but Valk felt the loss was unacceptable, and more likely the team will end up with replacements to fill their ranks. She then heard the radio chatter. “You guys good up there?” Need any assistance, over?”.

"Negative, Valkyrie; stay on the convoy! They need cover in case anyone else comes sniffing around. Brightspark, stay on me; I need someone to talk me in and keep an eye on me as I get this bird down - if I can, anyway"
Inside the cockpit, Kat in the rear seat fought to control and compensate for the damage; slapping fire suppression switches to try and extinguish the engine fire. Scott wrestled the jet in the front seat, jockeying the remaining throttle and coaxing as much control as he could from the ailing plane.
"KK, what have we got to work with, talk to me baby".
"Port engine is dead; it's completely out. Starboard is still alive, but it's screaming. Hydraulics are losing pressure; electrical systems are... borderline. We're pissing fuel, oil and hydraulic fluid but I'm doing the best I can"
"Right, I'm gonna try and get some altitude, and control; try and get us as close to home as possible"
He grimaced as he hauled the stick back, the plane shuddering, straining, and reluctantly taking a nose-high altitude, clawing those extra feet in height for miles in range toward the growing shape of Malta in the sea ahead, before he switched channels.
"Skywatch; this is Cobalt Lead, declaring an in-flight emergency. We have an aircraft fault and are heavily damaged. Going to try and make the runway at Luqa. But you might want to scramble the rescue chopper, and have emergency teams on standby, because this ain't gonna be a pretty landing, over!"
There was a heartbeat's pause, before the voice of the AWACS operator came back, strained as she tried to maintain her composure and calmly relay information.
"Roger, Cobalt lead; emergency services are being scrambled at Luqa international. Showing Cobalt 6 over the convoy, and Cobalt 5 on your position. No word from second flight yet, but they are on course. Cobalt Lead; showing you on good heading and closing from ten miles out. Keep your course and heading steady, over"
"Roger that, Skywatch. Thanks for the assist, going to do my best to bring this bird in, and only get out as a last option, over"
Scott checked the instruments; they flickered and fuzzed, glitches running through the touch-screen displays. He cursed fluently and extravagantly. His arms and legs were starting to ache from fighting the plane. It wanted to pull to the left, the asymmetric thrust from the right engine and drag from the damage to the left side of the plane direly affecting how it flew.
He flicked his mis-matched eyes between the instruments inside the cockpit and view outside. Malta loomed close, the plane eating up the miles despite hanging on by strings, and the black ribbon of the runway was painfully clear to his eyes, looking almost close enough to touch.
"We're losing hydraulics, Heartbreak!" Kat cried out from the rear cockpit. Scott grunted a reply and his hands danced across the controls.
"Going to use the last of what we have to try and get the gear and hook down and sweep the wings if we've got anything left. We'll have to rely on the crash prep to stop us".
"Roger that, do it!"
Scott hit the gear first and the plane rumbled and whined as the gear dropped into the slipstream. Immediately, the jet lurched and bucked, becoming more draggy. The gear lights refused to lock in the green position, and he grimaced, the controls growing ever-more mushy as the plane dropped lower.
"Fuck. Going to have to chance this. Hold on..."

From outside the plane, at Mykhailo's view, the ailing jet looked like a wounded bird. The wings had stuck half-forward, and the gear dropped three quarters of the way down. It lurched lower, dropping heavily and violently swaying, pulling to the side in the beginning of a slewing left turn, before wrenching part way around just enough to slam heavily onto one of the airport's runways, covered in crash foam. It bounced as it hit on the semi-extended gear, which collapsed as it hit the ground a second time. Skidding on its' belly, the tomcat slewed and span slowly to the left, before Scott shut off all thrust. Debris and sparks flew up in the wake of the jet as it skidded for a hundred meters, before coming to a stop. Immediately, Scott popped the canopy, it flying free as crash trucks doused the rest of the jet with foam, and crews bravely ran to the jet and hauled the pair free, them half-dragged, half-stumbling to safety.

Over the Convoy; Closing in, under 15 miles West of Malta
March 13th 2014.

"Cobalt 6, this is Skywatch. Cobalt Lead is down, Heartbreak and KK are safe. Reading no hostiles in your area. All bandits are down or no factor, no hostile surface targets within the perimeter. Continue your escort to within five miles of the coast and then RTB, good job out there, over"

The E-2 Hawkeye's radar operator told the truth of it; there were no signs of any other hostiles near the convoy, and the ships had escaped unharmed from the incident - even if the same couldn't be said for their escort.

Mykhailo Martinez

"Understood, Sir," Mykhailo stayed calm and let go of the fact that a foe got away; he had a commanding officer to protect. Turning his plane to escort Scott and Kat's damaged aircraft, he kept an eye out for any enemy reinforcments, before muttering, "Where did it go so wrong?"

Last-minute transfers out of the squadron, then Pilot Sokolov being taken out by the enemy being more heavily-armed and competent than was expected. Defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory, then the reverse happened before it was too late. And of course, he had to respect the foe's skill; the one who got away must have had something to fight for.

Mykhailo grit his teeth; so did he.

The mission was ending; what would have been one grand, sweeping, operation had turned into a battle of attrition - He hated it in video games, he knew he'd hate it in real life.

He glanced at Scott and Kat as their plane crash-landed onto the Luqa runaway, then received his orders from Skywatch to see his order to completion; good. Circling back to the convoy, Mykhailo kept guarding it until it was five miles to the coast as instructed, all the while making plans to get a bath, eat, grieve Sokolov in silence, and ponder how to act as a coherent whole with Fuka, Valkyrie, and Aurélie (or was it Amélie?), all three of whom he had annoyed in some form.

Good job, Mykhailo, he thought to himself with a bite of sarcasm. You demonstrated you were good at your job in a way Fuka cannot deny, but at what cost? Sokolov dead at a time when your bridges with the others are burnt or smoldering. You're cut off from the others and its your own damn fault.

He prided himself on letting go; he should. But he had to ask, "Skywatch; who will retreive Pilot Sokolov's remains, if there are any?"

@Damo021@Kensai@Smike@Rhona W

March 13th, 2014
Over Lampedusa, the Mediterranean

Was the enemy ingenious, or was Cobalt just not worth what Malta had paid them? Fuka couldn't say; this was only her first operation after all. That said, she wasn't overly thrilled with how her new career was shaping up. There was no quality control for mercenaries, no Better Business Bureau reports detailing their rankings. You had to judge them based on reputation and price, find the midpoint between quality and affordability. Hopefully these early issues were flukes and not signs that Shattered leaned too close to the latter.

"Good copy, adjusting angle."

The Black Bunny nosed up, rising steadily as Linosa began to shrink against the sea. Lampedusa was little more than a hop away, not even 30 nautical miles judging by how rapidly it grew in her field of view. Fuka leveled out and switched back to the targeting pod, scanning for threats on the ground.

And there were plenty of those.

"Woah, it's busy down there. I'm picking up active radar sweeps, looks like they've got SAMs scattered around. Mark one Herc and two Curls stationary on the tarmac, there's activity in the harbor as well. A couple of ferries with all sorts of military shit, one proper warship and a bunch of little boats too."

She spoke as much for her own benefit as Chevy's, verbally marking off the targets as she captured them on video. The enemy had much more gear than she had expected, and she probably hadn't even seen all of it!

"Scanning again, be advised that there's a radar setup on the hill and a few stationary AAs, got two Fitters and two Mirages parked as well. I've got a clear line at the ro-ro in the harbor, gonna strangle their landing force in its crib."

She had been told not to go looking for trouble, but what was this if not a target of opportunity? That ferry was loaded down with vehicles, ammo, and who knew what else, and more importantly it was the only thing capable of carrying a sizable force. Without it OPFOR would have to rely on a few big, slow transport craft.

The Litening's laser brushed across Lampedusa's surface, stopping on the keel of the ferry. It was close range for a SLAM-ER, close enough that she couldn't miss. The ferry was blown up across her screen, dead center of the crosshairs and locked-on.

"Rifle out."

A tap of a button and the missile was away, a barely visible blur that ended in a gout of fire and smoke. She could almost hear the thud of the warhead, the echo of steel on steel that would go forgotten in the roar of sheer concussion. Waves of sound and pressure rippled across the surface, tearing apart metal and flesh with equal ease. Peacenik was only human; she couldn't process information fast enough to see the process. But she could picture it clear as day, picture it and be grateful that she wasn't on the receiving end.

"Target hit."

Peeling away Fuka could see her handiwork, a gaping hole torn across the stern just starting just above the waterline. It was taking on water fast, a problem compounded by whatever damage had been done to the internals. Fuka didn't allow herself the chance to gloat, already scanning the island for threats. The radar was still searching but had yet to lock, the Black Bunny's low cross-section and iron ball paint buying her time.

Not enough however, as there was finally activity on the ground.

"Bandits are taking off! Moving to engage, trying to catch 'em on the ascent."

@Kensai

Freyja 'Valkyrie' Svensdotter

"Acknowledged skywatch, will continue to escort the convoy over." Keeping her thoughts to herself, Valk still had a job to do, even if this was the more mundane part of it, this gave her time to give things some thought while remaining vigilant. Valk of course was happy to hear the both Heartbreak and KK were safe from their crash landing, although it did leave the Swedish pilot a bit annoyed, just how the heck did the planes become into so much disrepair? Was wolf not doing his job in maintaining there're aircraft? was the N/UN not giving him the probably supplies and equipment to for him? many craft didn't make it of the ground, one malfunction to which got them shot down by the enemy and the flight lead engine nuked itself mid combat. Questions needed to be asked.

Ultimately, the escort to the 5 mile mark was quiet, and uneventful, Brightsspark had come to join her in escorting the convoy in , the one good thing to come out of this was the ships making it. and hopefully the intel gathering mission went better for the others. Just like Skywatch said, no more hostiles came. Freyja's thoughts were interupted when Mykh spoke up about finding his remains, weather or not his body could be retrieved would be left up to command. But she saw how she failed in her squad leader role and lost a wingman. She spoke up on the radio in response to her fellow pilots question. "Listen kid, I'm sorry but Sokolov's gone, I saw him go down with my own eyes... I saw no ejection." Her voice was a somber one, She failed on her part and it will stick with her for a while, but it wont effect her from pushing forward and performing her duties, maybe rescue crews will check? but that was not her choice to make.

Soon enough, Freyja was within the 5 mile mark and was on her way back to land, again the tower was doing pretty much all the talking. The swedish pilot opting to remain silent for the time being and collect her thoughts, maybe a stiff drink was in order also. on approach, Valk was instructed to use the other runway as the strickened F-14 was still being sorted out on the other, clean crews work hard to secure the craft and clear up the runway. Her landing went without any issues, and was guided into an area she could taxi to and park up and clear the spare runway for Mykh. She needed to get out of her gear, get cleaned up and shower no doubt before the debrief of all debriefs was no doubt going to happen. She chose not to vent her frustrations on the ground crew as it would not serve any purpose.

Aurélie nodded tersely as Fuka's SLAM-ER struck home, wrecking a ro-ro ferry. Her wingman was competent, at least - something she might not feel about some other components of her squadron, pilots and ground staff alike. There might have to be... words, or more than mere words. But that was a concern for another moment. Right now, she was barreling in low, counting on the Rafale's speed, low observability, and ECM suite - and the distraction of the massive explosion - to give her a window.

"Good hit, Cobalt 2," she said. "Tally two bandits on the deck and climbing."

She adjusted her angle of approach just a tick. The enemy pilots were rushed, clumsy - their alert five birds, if they bothered with such things, but the base caught napping by Cobalt's sudden appearance. And then having a missile impact in their vicinity while they were taking off... that would have rattled better fliers than these.

"Mirage F1s," Aurélie murmured, feeling the irony of engaging an earlier generation of Dassault fighters. The fliers knew their birds, at least. One of the strengths of the F1 was its power to weight ratio and low drag in interceptor configuration. Lean on the throttle and it would take off like a rocket.

Unfortunately for them, Aurélie was a student of air combat. And the problem with leaning on the throttle was that putting out a lot of thrust meant putting out a lot of heat, and taking off like a rocket meant you were going straight. That gave her MICA-IRs a nice juicy target, and they were already well within her no-escape zone. The tone rang in her ears.

"Cobalt Two, I'm engaging the leader. Take the wingman. Fox Two!"

The heat seeker streaked off its pylon, rocket motor accelerating it at forces that would snap a human's neck. It covered the distance between the aircraft in seconds.

In the skies above Lampedusa

The ferry had no chance to avoid the SLAM-ER. Anchored and at rest, and with none of the defences a military vessel might have, it had no means to escape the hit. Missile pierced the side of the ship just above the waterline, the kinetic energy of the heavy missile punching it through the unarmoured hull, before the 500-pound blast fragmentation warhead detonated inside the ship, tearing through decks, walls and bulkheads, and igniting anything flammable within reach. The blast heaved the ship sideways and rocked it off axis, and rolling back put the gaping tear in the hull under the waterline, instantly starting to flood the ship. The explosion shattered glass in windows around the harbor, sending people running for cover. All too late, air defences started to search frantically for the source of the missile, as personnel threw themselves to cover at the worry of any follow-on attacks.

Over the airport, the Mirage F1's rose, climbing rapidly to meet the intruding Shattered Steel planes. As they grew closer, it became easier to pick them out to the pair. They didn't wear the same camouflage as the other planes sighted, nor the same Libyan national insignia either. Instead, they were coloured in two-tone grey splinter camouflage on their upper surfaces and dark grey-black on their undersides, their logos hard to see in low-viz grey.
Chevy's shot was a good one, pulling the trigger as the first of the pair rose put them already on the defensive, and when they had little room and power to manoeuvre at that. Desperately, the pilot triggered countermeasures, a spread of cloud-white trails arcing out as flares burst across the skies. He hauled over on the stick, trying desperately to avoid and risking rolling the jet into a spin as the missile closed in. The Mica's proximity fuse detonated, and it tore up the starboard side of the jet, leaving ragged tears in the aluminium skin and structure below. As the pilot hauled into the turn, the strain on the damaged areas grew, and the wing buckled in half, at the same instant as the engine inhaled chunks of debris from the damaged intake. The pilot punched out as the doomed jet turned on it's back and began to tumble and spiral through the air, trailing flame and smoke.

The wingman rose, cautious of the hunting planes now that his leader had gone down. He was more canny, and instead of climbing straight up, they extended; going shallower and flatter and hugging ground cover to attempt to scatter radar signals, before pulling into steep, sharp banks to lose the visual against the surface of the sea and the island below, before ascending as the dark shape of Fuka's Superhornet flashed by. The F/A-18 had more power with its' twin engines, but it was heavier and the Mirage F1's pilot used that to their advantage, turning inside the bigger, heavier carrier jets' circle as they sought for a lock-on, and were rewarded as the recticle in their HUD turned red and the buzzing growl of a positive tone sounded, and a Mica leapt off the wingtip rail to scythe through the air toward the gleaming black F/A-18

@Smike, @Kensai

March 13th, 2014
Over Lampedusa, the Mediterranean

There wasn't time to ogle the destruction wrought (as much as Fuka would have liked to); the Mirages were climbing fast and their friends on the ground were searching for targets.

The fox call naturally drew the eye, Fuka turning just in time to watch the missile detonate, shredding the flight lead's bird and sending it tumbling to the island below. The sky-pirate had gotten out when the getting was good, lucky him, and once they shook off the sensation of their brain rattling around skull from a rocket-propelled dismount they'd be shitting themselves with the memory of just how close they came to getting killed.

That left one, and they were a smart fucker. Fuka grumbled to herself as the Mirage tucked low to the ground, the terrain scattering her lock as it steadily slid inside her circle. It was just a physics problem: lighter plane plus good thrust equaled faster turning. It was what she would have done had their positions been reversed.

Fuka snarled wordlessly as she threw the Black Bunny into a rising loop. G-forces pressed down on her like the palm of God trying to smother her out, a synthetic finger hovering over the control panel. The HUD flashed a hateful red, RWR bleeting in panic. The plane itself knew it was being hunted and screamed in warning, and Fuka, the shepherd she was, saved it.

A two-fingered punch of the touchpad sent chaff and flares scattering across the sky, the magnesium-laced cloud of aluminum strips thrown to the wind by the passage of a missile. The Mirage had missed, and now Peacenik was coming down on top of him.

They were on a path to intercept one another, hurtling closer and closer to oblivion. Getting a lock at that range was almost instantaneous, firing instinctive. There was no fox call, no time for one even, just the whoosh of a Sidewinder being launched and a fiery wreck of a plane falling out of the sky.

Another victory for her.

"Sorry about the blind fire," she chirped, leveling out to begin banking back around towards the hill. "Was a little dicey there. Gonna kill that radar and then mop up with the rest of the ordinance."

It was an entirely exposed stationary target; hitting it was a near-automatic process. Flash it with the targeting laser, wait for the tone, give Chevy a hearty "Magnum out!" and peel away as the crater that once been a radar installation smoked like a chimney. The SAMs were near-worthless now, and Lampedusa was nothing more than a bunch of sandcastles for her to kick.

She went down the line, locking onto targets as they appeared in her sights before destroying them.

"Rifle out."

The second SLAM-ER smashed into the remaining ferry, carving a gash through the centerline. She wondered idly whether it had been purchased or if some poor businessman was going to turn on the news and see his missing boat sinking into the Mediterranean.

"Going in for that corvette."

Fuka was taking her time now, lazily lopping back over the harbor with a waggle of her wings. The people on the ground could see her and down nothing about it, and she put on a show for them. The Bunny rolled languidly, belly facing the sun momentarily as its pilot homed on the warship. She selected her shots carefully, aiming for just above the waterline. As she turned right side up Fuka let the JDAMs fall away, two thousand pounds of boom gliding towards the enemy.

"Pigs away."

They hit home, the ship suddenly engulfed in a cloud of smoke and dust. However badly the escort mission had gone, no matter how tits up the rest of Cobalt had ended up, Fuka had done her job.

"I'm spent, ready to head home?"

@Kensai

March 13th 2014
Late Evening
Malta International Airport
Luqa
Malta

Hours had passed since the recon flight had returned successful from their part of the mission, a short while after the rest of the squadron had landed. Heartbreak hadn't called a debriefing immediately; he'd been rushed to the local hospital following his crash landing, and Kat along with him.

Gunther 'Wolf' Wolfman stood at one end of the aircraft apron, away from the area where the built-up, sandbagged revetments for the squadron's active aircraft were. He hadn't ordered the maintenance crew into action yet, so the sleek machines stood silent, gleaming in the reflections of the few lights that were on, what with the blackouts in effect to protect from possible air attack.
Wolf hadn't ordered the crews to work, because there was a suspicion that had been gnawing at him, and it was something he didn't want to acknowledge, despite the evidence.
He knew how hard he did his job, how well he trained and instructed his people. He made sure - as sure as sure could ever be - to look after the planes under his care, for the sake of the pilots in them. Enabling them to carry out their missions and get back alive was the whole reason he had dedicated himself for the whole of his career to maintenance, and trained generations of maintainers.
Having as many planes fail as they did on a single occasion, that was something that he couldn't allow to sit as a mark against his career, or his personal reputation and standards.
He'd checked through the electronic 'paperwork' that had been filed, and he'd found something that had pointed to a situation that had raised a suspicion with him, and it was one that worried him.

Out of the eight planes the squadron had had before the start of the mission, four had been worked on by the team of technicians and maintenance personnel he'd overseen personally - Brightspark's F-16, Peacenik's F/A-18, Chevy's Rafale, and Valkyrie's Gripen.
The other four, they had been overseen and maintenance checked out and signed off by his second in command. Appointed only a few months earlier, he'd had an average, though not spectacular, career before that. And the second team was comprised mostly of newer personnel taken on only a short time earlier.
They had been responsible for the rest of the planes; Clown's Typhoon, Stingray's F-117N, Heartbreak and Kitten's ASF-14.
And Rook's Yak-141.
That last set of signed maintenance documents, affirming that the Yak-141 had been free of all errors, was fit to fly and fight, and was in perfect shape...

Gunther bit down on the stub of the cigar he habitually carried, his teeth biting clear through it and the bitter, acrid taste of the soaked tobacco leaves on his tongue. He spat it out, angrily.
There was no way this was negligence, or carelessness. The same work had been done by the same people prior to the transatlantic flight, and that had been uneventful, with no problems for any of the pilots or their aircraft.
This was sabotage, and he had a list of suspects, but pursuing them alone, that would be too dangerous - and the pilots needed to know about the danger they might be facing.
He was interrupted from his thoughts and contemplation of the sad wreckage of the three planes, as the thundering roar of jet engines intruded, and the runway landing lights came on long enough to guide the planes in, their navigation lights glowing and blinking in the twilight.
The leading aircraft were a sleek trio of ultra-modern aircraft. The first was a Sukhoi Su-33 in a striking red-white-black camouflage scheme. The next was a swing-winged, stealth jet that was the replacement for the ASF-14, the F-22N Sea Raptor and this one in blue-blue-white Ukrainian camouflage. And the final of the trio he recognised right away; he had a personal connection to it's pilot, and his anger of the moment was curbed somewhat by her arrival. The delta-winged EF-2000 Typhoon was very similar to Clown's aircraft behind him, but this one carried a lightning-themed paint scheme that he knew personally.
As the three fighters moved to taxi off of the runway, the final arrival came in behind them; the lumbering shape of a gigantic Antonov AN-124 transport that held inside its' cavernous hold replacement aircraft for Heartbreak and Kitten, as well as additional supplies. It would also fly out the remains of the other planes that had been damaged.
The enormous plane touched down with a light squeak of wheels, and then the engines kicked into reverse to slow it down with a rushing roar of air, slowing it enough to turn off at the runway end and taxi toward the apron, where it would be unloaded.
He'd deal with it later; there were things he had to do.



A few hours later, and in the dark of the middle of the night, Scott had returned from the hospital in Msida. His injuries weren't too severe; some heavy bruising, minor cuts, and slipped ribs on his left side. Kat had had the worst of it; her spine had suffered some bruising, and her neck heavily jarred and shocked, leaving her with a mild concussion after her head had collided with the instrument panel, along with a dislocated wrist. Her prognosis was good, but the doctors wanted to keep her in for twenty four hours for observation. The fair-haired pilot was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to shower, and to sleep. He was still wearing the same flight suit he'd had on when they'd taken off that morning, and when the plane had come to rest on the runway. It smelt of burnt insulation, smoke, and fire retardant foam, as well as all the buckets of sweat he'd expelled during the dogfight, and then the crash-landing.
Gunther was waiting for him when he reached the barracks, and the expression on the mechanic's craggy face told him that he wouldn't be sleeping for hours yet.



Scott was waiting along with Wolf a half-hour later as he called the squadron's pilots to the office he'd commandeered in the Malta armed forces HQ building. He'd sent the summons as an urgent requirement; something not to be ignored - and it had included the new arrivals.
What had made it seem even more serious was that he'd requested them all to come after drawing their sidearms and longarms from the armoury.

He was sitting on his desk as they entered, having changed out of his flight suit at last and into a simple white T-Shirt and olive BDU pants. His MP5 lay alongside him on the desk as well, and his thigh holster was strapped on. He bid the last one of them in to close the door.
"Everyone, please welcome our new arrivals - I had hoped to introduce Calico, Sparrow and Jefe in better circumstances with a proper briefing, and a debriefing from our previous mission. But Wolf has important information, and I need to share it with all of you as a priority".
He looked them all in the eye with a serious expression as he continued.
"I know we haven't had time to decompress or go over what happened yet. But you're all aware of the problems we had before and during the mission. That many issues with maintenance is incredibly uncommon".
Wolf spoke up, his deep voice hard and his craggy expression matching it as he spoke, arms folded across his barrel chest, the baseball cap he almost always wore bunched and screwed up in one bear-like hand.
"Maintaining those planes, and keeping all of you flying and safe is a matter of pride for me. And so is having the best people doing the best job on my maintenance crews. Which is why this is so... personal to me, and why I looked into all of it. I would never let so much go wrong".
Scott tapped the table laying on the desk in the office he'd commandeered for his own.
"Wolf has shown me the information, and verified it. The maintenance records for Clown, Stingray and my own aircraft were falsified". His lips formed a hard line, as he continued.
"And so was Rook's. Which means him getting shot down, probably wasn't just a bad deal of the cards. There's a small, tightly-knit group in the maintenance team that actively sabotaged our aircraft".
He pointed to the four whose planes hadn't been affected.
"You four had your aircraft maintenance personally overseen by Wolf and none of the same personnel worked on them as did on mine and the other three. So that's why you suffered no issues, and why we know who within the maintenance pool can be trusted".
He gestured to the trio of new arrivals.
"-And the same with you; your planes were maintained before you left the Forge, by different personnel, so they won't be affected. So as of right now; if anything comes up, the seven of you are the ones we can get in the air to do anything about it.
"My new jet is here, as is Kitten's. But neither of us are in a shape to fly right now, and the planes need to be checked out after being stowed for transporting here. But we can't do that, and give the rest of our planes the maintenance they need with only the people we can trust. We don't have the time or manpower to expend drawing them out - so, we're going to confront them. Our security personnel have locked down the perimeter of the airport, as well as securing the ordnance and fuel dumps, the vehicle pool, the flightline and the armoury. That's stretched them and the locals pretty thin, so we're the only people we can spare.
"We're going to go confront the issue now. I'm expecting things might turn ugly - so be prepared. Let's go"

Scott slid off the desk, picking up his MP5, and lead the way out of the door, and out of the headquarters building, in the direction of the maintenance workshops and stores, the night around them suddenly having taken on a very quiet, and almost eerie air.
Scott moved with purpose and familiarity, moving into an easy, tactical lope through the airports' shadows, sticking to a route that kept them as much out of sight as possible.
As they approached the building, he used hand signals to bring everyone to a stop in cover, kneeling in the cover of the service vehicle garage. He spoke in a quiet, hushed tone; one that didn't carry too far.
"All right, listen up. I know some of you won't have fought a gun battle before. Or maybe not for a long time, if you have. There's not time for a refresher, but all I can say is, remember your training, keep your heads down and stick to cover, and watch each others' backs"
He nodded to Fuka, noting the way she moved with experience and skill with her marksman rifle expertly glued to her shoulder.
"Peacenik; take half the squadron and move around the rear of the Maintenance building. Tag anyone who tries to run, and get an entry point through the fire exit"
He nodded to Jefe, the sinomexican having lugged her light machine-gun. "Jefe, I want you around the front of the building; suppressive fire with your LMG if they fire on us, so we can breach. I'm gonna assume they're not looking for a peaceful resolution to this, and that they're going to be armed. Stick to cover, keep low while moving. Shoot back first if they're shooting, and then go for surrender and capture".

He looked to Fuka as the rest of them moved out and shook his head briefly, a tight, tiny smile on his face.
"You know; this ain't what I expected this mission to go like. I swear, it isn't normally like this".
He nodded to her before he shouldered the MP5 again, moving around the cover and sticking to it as he headed to the front of the maintenance building.

As he approached, he pulled the SMG tighter into his shoulder, his posture moved into a perfect tactical flow of motion. He stayed below the level of the ground-floor windows as he moved in a crouch.
As he approached the door, he directed them to stack up on him, and Ximena to cover the front of the building - and then gunfire opened up on them from inside, rattling out from the rooftop and the windows along its' front. Scott wheeled around the door, hugging the wall, and rattling short bursts from the SMG as he moved in.

@Kensai, @Letter Bee, @Smike, @Damo021, @Finetales

Mykhailo Martinez

After arriving and taking a shower, putting on a new uniform, and eating, Mykhailo was going to cruise around in Malta for 'a good time', but decided that at this point, going around picking up gals and guys might expose him to blackmail and assassination attempts - As it is, the young man knew they had been sabotaged and he was going to get to the bottom of it! Thankfully, he knew that his personal crew were trustworthy, and so was their immediate superior; Wolf, was it?

So Mykhailo's first order of business was to see Gunther 'Wolf' Wolfman, bringing a bag of small pastries with him to signal he wanted to talk, and saying, "You free for a few seconds?"

Then he'd tell Wolf how he suspected sabotage on both Scott and the now-dead Sokolov's planes, and maybe others', too.

---

Timeskip to the meeting, and Mykhailo's face was red with rage as he was told he was entirely correct that they had been sabotaged. Thankfully, he had his trusty Pistol on his right belt holster while he carried an M4 Assault Rifle, that he had signed out from the Armory two hours ago, on his left side - A statement of his intentions.

And considering how he was gripping the M4's handle so tightly his knuckles were whiter than ever, Mykhailo Martinez knew how to use it. This was confirmed when he said to Scott just before he left, "What's the policy for overkill? Do we have to capture the enemy for interrogation? Or should we kill them all?"

Damn me for being right. I really, really wanted to be wrong. For miss 'lives rent-free in my head' to be right. But alas, she's wrong, and we've been infiltrated by the enemy.

His eyes glinted as he followed Scott to the maintenance building, knowing full well he revealed a side of himself no one wanted to see. A side that made him just like the enemy.

He had no excuse; his ideology demanded the exact opposite, the person he was avenging was not the person to want this, and before this, he had really wanted to let go of his grudges and petty offenses from other people. But this wasn't petty, was it?

Mykhailo Martinez wanted to relax and live well and strike a blow against those who threatened his way of life. But right now, someone had to stop him from blasting the heads off any captured saboteurs because right now, he was too angry to stop himself...

@Damo021@Kensai@Smike@Rhona W@Finetales

Ahh, Malta.

Yuna's career travels had taken her through the island nation once or twice before, but never long enough to really enjoy it. Perhaps this time she would get that chance? Either way, there were far worse places to go on a first deployment with a squadron, so Yuna was in good spirits as she lined her Flanker-D up to the ILS approach. The preliminary briefing she had been given back at the Forge told her that spirits may not be so high in the existing squadron members, but she'd cross that bridge when she got to it. At the moment, she was too distracted by a) landing her plane, and b) marveling at how large the Malta airport was relative to the size of the country. With runway 13 at nearly 11,000 feet in length, no carrier-like landings were necessary here.

Prior to her final approach, two other two fighter jets had been sequenced in before her. These jets made her Su-33 seem, were it not for its upgrades, a bit out of date. Those were the other two new squadron members completing their little trio of fresh meat, and it reassured Yuna that she would be fighting alongside aircraft of that caliber. No more sharing the sky with rustbucket MiG-21s and F-4s held together with duct tape and a prayer. She brought the Su-33 down smoothly, with a chirp of the wheels on the tarmac and a quick exit onto the taxiway.

A little while later, Yuna had left the apron and made her way to the women's barracks, and was now getting her things in order after having changed out of her flight suit. It seemed she had found a time to enter the barracks when everyone else was gone, but no doubt that was only temporary. Unless...they all went out to town? She had to admit, she was itching to see more of Malta and to see a cold beer in front of her, but was also eager to rest up after the long trans-Atlantic flight. Either way, she was in no rush.

---

Well, so much for rest!

An urgent meeting so soon, with multiple firearms no less, was certainly one way to get familiar with a new squadron. Yuna chuckled as she knew from experience that this was far from the worst way. In any case, it seemed proper introductions would have to wait. Brandishing both her MP5 and P226 as instructed, along with several extra mags for each, Yuna walked in to find her squadron leader wearing a very serious look on his face. And certainly, the information Scott and Wolf presented was a very serious situation. They had just lost a pilot and almost lost the C/O to a maintenance saboteur that meddled with half the squadron?? Did she hear that right? I think I'm getting an idea what these guns are f- Her internal monologue was cut off by Scott confirming it.

Yuna also noted a younger squadron member looking absolutely furious at the news. What's this guy's problem? she thought. Yuna understood as well as anybody that emotions run high after you lose a squadronmate, but this...this was not normal behavior. He seems like he might be a handful. Might even be fun to poke...but not right now. Her judging eyes didn't have too much time to dwell on him though, as Scott beckoned the squadron out towards a confrontation with...whoever the culprit was.

Doing an urban foot raid in a fighter pilot squadron? What could go wrong? This squadron is spicy. I like it.

Yuna stuck close to Scott as the squadron made their way towards the maintenance area. When signaled to fan out, Yuna quietly moved herself wide left, posting up behind a small shipping container saddled up against the next building over. From her corner she had a good sight line to the front door, with coverage of the windows to the left of the door, should things get hot. And get hot they did; Yuna was not expecting much gunfire, if at all, and certainly not anywhere near the volume of gunfire that erupted from the building. Yuna moved back behind the container, but only for a moment; Scott was extremely vulnerable being right in front of them, and they needed to draw the fire away from him. She was totally pinned down when they were firing at her, but she noticed that there seemed to be only a few shooters with their attention on her, and they weren't staggering their reloads, causing breaks in the fire that was directed towards her. When the tracers stopped coming, she leaned out with her MP5 drawn and shot at the gunmen closest to the door and Scott. She figured the ones focusing on her would catch on to her strategy quickly, so she (and the rest of the squadron) needed a more permanent solution, and fast.

@Rhona W @Letter Bee @Smike @Kensai @Damo021

March 13th, 2014
Malta International Airport

Fuka Nakano
After that fucking shitshow, Fuka was glad to be back on solid ground. Getting back had been easy, with Lampedusa basically blown to bits the remaining idiots on the ground hadn't dared to tempt her into a strafing run. They had been well-supplied, but gear didn't equal training or skill.

That said, skill didn't count for much if your gear kept catastrophically failing on you. Half of the birds had been taken out of action without a shot fired, and then two more dropped from the sky. Two injured and one dead in one operation against scruffy pirates? Awful.

It wasn't her problem for the time being. She was alive and Rook was not, whether it was because she was the better pilot or the luckier didn't matter.

After landing and changing clothes Fuka had made her way to Msida, her worn-out boots stomping down the pristine hallways. From what she heard Kat was the most battered between her and Heartbreak, so it was Kat that got the well-wishes.

"I heard you beat a hole in the instrument panel with your head. Glad you did more damage to it than it did you."

She had never crashed before, and she was happy to leave that experience to other people.

Ximena Huang
Once upon a time, Ximena had thought herself fearless. She was smart and quick on her feet, capable of running circles around people in the field or the boardroom. Closing million dollar deals? Easy. Meeting with a double agent inside some guarded compound? Light work. Fear had been something other people felt, a victim's mindset she simply refused to entertain.

But then she got older, more experienced, had more close calls. Time had stripped back her shielding like layers of paint, giving her a glimpse at the tender flesh below. Ximena was afraid of a lot of things, actually. She feared death, of course, but getting old terrified her. The thought of being caught and tortured by enemies abroad or back home made her stomach twist itself into knots, almost as much as knowing she had made her parents' lives much harder when she fled. Thinking about Zuhal filled her with an all-consuming anxiety, a mix of nervous rage from being betrayed and the abject horror of knowing that she had abandoned the one person she had felt safe with.

These fears weren't new. They were just the most recent manifestations of things she had tried to ignore. Ximena had been afraid for the past decade, if not more. It's what made her such a good spy and a fantastic pilot. That said, she didn't actually enjoy the feeling. It drained her, made doing anything more than the motions an impossible task. Mitigation was best found in bottles and bedrooms of strangers, but those weren't always accessible. When Ximena couldn't medicate her way out of her issues, she turned to rituals, habits made meaningful by sheer repetition.

Whenever she touched down at a new base, she took a shower and read the personnel files, and when possible, she did both at once. She slid on her shower shoes and dropped her work tablet in a plastic bag that used to hold toiletries and took up position directly under the head, the splash of water against tile droning in her ear. Reading about her coworkers signaled that it was time to mask up, like a five-minutes-till-opening-call backstage. By the time she had committed faces and names to memory she was already smiling crookedly, amused at the colorful cast she was with.

----------------------------------------
Someone had beaten her to the bedroom. The Singaporan, Yuna, was already unpacked and out of her flight suit, Ximena looking her over from behind her ever-present sunglasses.

"Hey Calico." she greeted casually, fishing in her pockets for a lighter. "You trying to hit the town?"

The faster she got started drinking the better.


Fuka Nakano
Fuka had more experience in ground combat than most on the team, what with being a Ranger and all, but that didn't mean she liked doing it. Any situation that required a pilot pulling a longarm from the armory was a bad one. There was a reason Shattered had a separate security force, and if it was stretched so thin that the air jockeys had to play Rambo then they were already on the backfoot. Peacenik didn't enjoy being surrounded by POGs with guns, quite frankly. She didn't relish trusting her life to someone who might never have been shot at. Dogfighting and house-clearing weren't in the same ballpark; they weren't the same fucking game.

But there was nothing to be done. Someone had sabotaged their planes and they had to be cleared out. Listening to Heartbreak gave her flashbacks. Unscrupulous criminal elements with heavy weapons and too much cash, locals overwhelmed and reaching out for assistance, bribed support staff making her life harder, it was Mexico all over again.

Maybe she'd lose the other arm.

"Boss, this whole thing reeks. If they got to our ground crew they could be paying off anyone. I think we should assume our security is compromised until we can prove otherwise."

Wunderkind opened his mouth, earning him a glare. Fuka looked over the kid and saw his red face and white knuckles, not exactly the cool head one wanted walking into a firefight. Again she mentally cursed POGs and POGkind, those necessary evils that she appreciated but wanted far away when shit hit the fan.

"Put it this way:" she said cooly, hoisting her M110 over her shoulder. "Handle anyone who's a threat. You go farther than that, I'll handle you."

There was nothing more to say, nor the time to say it. Gunfire broke out and instincts kicked in just like over Lampedusa, Fuka dropping into low cover and taking aim at the building. She saw a torso draped in an ammo vest, a mouth opened to shout a warning-a burst of red dust as she put one through his forehead.

Her second target was dashing for cover, spraying wildly with her Uzi as she did so. Fuka fired twice, one shot going wide but the other striking home.

Two down.

She wasn't going to lay down suppressive fire or chop it up in close quarters with her marksman's rifle. Fuka stayed back, letting others draw heat as she picked off targets of opportunity.

Ximena Huang
Impressively, this was probably the worst introduction to a flight team Ximena ever had. Sabotuers in the mechanic bays? A crew of them? What, did Westerners not do background checks?

At least her new pals were amusing. There was the preteen with the angry eyes and the look of someone who bought guns to brandish in bars (Brightspark, a name that was either sarcastic or stuck through bribery) and his big angry babysitter (Peacenik, rather fitting for a kill-crazy Yankee), both of which seemed fun to pester in their own ways.

"Oh don't fault the boy for wanting to play with his food a little." she snickered. "A killer like him, we should be grateful he's taking it out on the enemy.

She lagged behind somewhat, in part because she was lugging an LMG and belts of ammo, but once the shooting started Jefe got right to work She slid into cover alongside Calico, bullets bouncing off the shipping containers as she took a moment to steel herself The kitty-cat had the right idea but the wrong weapon, Ximena setting up the bipod and letting the SAW rip Immediately the tempo of the fight changed, the cobbled-together small arms drowned out by the chatter of proper machine gun fire.

Good thing I didn't put the suppressor on.

She paused to let the barrel cool, shouting as she did so.

"Make it easy and surrender while you can! We got enough ammo out here to cut the walls down!"

@Finetales @Letter Bee @Rhona W

So Mykhailo's first order of business was to see Gunther 'Wolf' Wolfman, bringing a bag of small pastries with him to signal he wanted to talk, and saying, "You free for a few seconds?"

Then he'd tell Wolf how he suspected sabotage on both Scott and the now-dead Sokolov's planes, and maybe others', too.

Wolf had been checking the details for the planes that had been delivered, making a note of their maintenance records and carefully checking everything - and carefully keeping a track of the suspected persons he had in mind, investigating their backgrounds and the details he could shake down. He was no intelligence specialist, nor a hacker or information analyst, but he'd been around long enough and in his game long enough to know a few tricks about military records and bookkeeping, and they'd shaken loose a couple of details that were enough to bring to Scott and reinforce his suspicions.
When the young pilot arrived at his office, Gunther was surprised to see him. He nodded as Mykhailo asked him, and invited him in with a wave.
"Ja, please, step in".
He accepted one of the pastries gladly... and then as Myk launched into his remarkably accurate suspicions, Gunther held a hand up to stop him a moment, crossing the room quickly to close the door, before he nodded to the young man, sitting on his desk and speaking in a low voice.
"I have had the same thoughts as you. And I looked into it; there are saboteurs in our ranks".
The older man's rugged, weathered face was a picture of anguish and frustration as he shook his head, picking his cap off his head and screwing it up in one hand, the other smoothing through his short, salt-and-pepper hair as he spoke.
"I have looked into all the background information of the maintenance personnel; and the ones who are all linked with the planes that had the issues. They are recent to joining Shattered Steel. Even though their backgrounds checked out, I found a few things, some little things of suspicion, you know..." he looked back to the young man with a tight-lipped grimace. "I feel like a fool now, for not noticing. That I have failed the squadron and especially for Sokolov... but also I am angry at these people, that they have come among us with this as their reason, put this on us..."
He shook his head again, standing up from the desk and nodding to Mykhailo. "Go to the armoury, sign out your weapons, find the rest of your fellow pilots, and then meet me at Heartbreak's office. I think it is time we tell him of what we've learned"

Meanwhile, at Matar Dei Hospital, Msida

"I heard you beat a hole in the instrument panel with your head. Glad you did more damage to it than it did you."

Kat had a small room in the hospital all to herself. She sat atop the covers on the hospital bed, boots off and her flightsuit down around her waist and tied off, her top half clad in a black sports bra. She'd been tapping her feet together idly as she flipped through channels on the TV, trying to find something tolerable to watch, before Fuka entered the room. She grinned at the other woman's words, setting the remote aside as her visitor stepped in. She laughed - a rough, coarse sound - at her comment.
"Well, when that ungodly slab of a plane decided to crap out on us and die, I thought if it was going to try and take me down, I'd do my best to kill it first", she joked back, smiling gamely.
"Thank you for coming to visit though. The doctors prodded and poked me a bit, blasted me with some X-Rays, and said I should be fine. They just want to keep me in for observation." She lowered her voice conspiratorially, a gleam of amusement in her single, pale blue eye as she leaned slightly in Fuka's direction, putting one hand up to her face in a stage whisper.
"Between you and me, I think they're confused. Lost track of the injuries, and they're just trying to work out if any of the scars are new ones. Don't want to admit their mistakes...!"

Hours Later

Fuka Nakano

"Boss, this whole thing reeks. If they got to our ground crew they could be paying off anyone. I think we should assume our security is compromised until we can prove otherwise."

Scott grimaced and nodded.
"Wolf has looked into the information; it seems like the sabotage was orchestrated by recent additions to the maintenance team, but they only took action once we arrived here. Their background checks were obviously all right when they first joined Shattered Steel; they wouldn't have ended up here otherwise. So this is obviously some kind of long-term plan or action. What, I currently have no idea.
You're right though, there could be others involved, but if we start suspecting everyone, we won't be able to do anything. As it is, we have a definite link between what happened and the identified maintenance personnel, so they might be able to give us a link to anyone else - and it might prod them into action as well. I've already sent an encrypted message back to HQ as well, notifying them of the situation. But you're right; keep alert and aware.
"Considering they took action when we got here, I'm betting this is linked to a bigger picture involving something we don't yet know about going on in this region, involving whoever is supplying and financing the attacks".

"What's the policy for overkill? Do we have to capture the enemy for interrogation? Or should we kill them all?"

Much to his credit, Scott didn't explode at Myk, and managed to maintain his composure at the bloodthirsty request. Though, the rest of the people in the room might have wondered if he might have dislocated an eyebrow as well as his ribs, given how high he managed to raise it.

"Put it this way:" she said cooly, hoisting her M110 over her shoulder. "Handle anyone who's a threat. You go farther than that, I'll handle you."

"Oh don't fault the boy for wanting to play with his food a little." she snickered. "A killer like him, we should be grateful he's taking it out on the enemy.

Scott was thankful for Fuka's interjection, and he pointed to her and nodded at Mykhailo, choosing to diplomatically ignore Ximena's comment for the meantime - though, he resolved to keep an eye on her catty sense of humour when it came to comments about other.

"What Peacenik said; we're not looking to go on a murder rampage of revenge. Just to secure things, and hopefully gather some information. But survival is the priority. Shoot anyone who's shooting at you".

@Smike, @Letter Bee

"Hey Calico." she greeted casually, fishing in her pockets for a lighter. "You trying to hit the town?"

The faster she got started drinking the better.

As if on cue, Yuna's solitude was interrupted by an arrival. Yuna recognized the face from the personnel files - Ximena Huang, another new arrival. The sunglasses-clad woman was a welcome sight for Yuna's sore eyes, and Calico immediately detected a potential drinking buddy. It seemed she may not have been alone in that assessment.

Yuna turned to Ximena and grinned. "You read my mind," she said in Chinese, slightly cocking her head to one side as she did so. She continued in English. "You know Malta at all? Otherwise, I vote we start walking and hit up the first bar we see. I got at least a couple drinks with my name on them."

@Smike