Avatar of CaptainBritton
  • Last Seen: 10 days ago
  • Joined: 7 yrs ago
  • Posts: 324 (0.12 / day)
  • VMs: 1
  • Username history
    1. CaptainBritton 7 yrs ago
  • Latest 10 profile visitors:

Status

Recent Statuses

5 yrs ago
Current "Out of every hundred men, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are targets, nine are the real fighters, for they make the battle. But one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back." -Heraclitus
3 likes
7 yrs ago
"I have resolved never to start an unjust war, but never to end a legitimate one except by defeating my enemies." -King Charles XII 'Carolus Rex' of Sweden, 1700
1 like
7 yrs ago
“Civilians are like beans; you buy 'em as needed for any job which merely requires skill and savvy. But you can't buy fighting spirit.” -Robert A. Heinlein
5 likes
7 yrs ago
"The soldier is also a citizen. In fact, the highest obligation and privilege of citizenship is that of bearing arms for one’s country” -General George S. Patton Jr.
3 likes
7 yrs ago
"Wine has drowned more than the sea." -Roman proverb
6 likes

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts





July 17th, 2552
2100 hrs
In orbit around Sigma Octanus IV...


Eerily, silently, streaks of yellow light and flame streaked across the battlefield like bolts of lightning, the three-hundred-sixty degree camera monitors showing a fleet enraged, firing off all at once, towards an enemy so unfathomably far away, a fleet which had scarce noticed them until the heat of forty-eight vessels charging weapons had alerted them.

"Green light. Fire it, Lieutenant." The cool voice broke the tension in the Combat Information Center (CIC) of the Kearsarge. All eyes were on the Captain as his order echoed in complete silence. The fire control officer, one Lieutenant Atkins, murmured an acknowledgement, and flipped the cover to the ignition button, before depressing a thumb to it. Every circuit and wire in the ship seemed to whine, the electricity giving an awful din, its own battlecry, drawing and building towards something. And the ship shook, violently, a motion counteracted quickly by an inertial dampener and maneuver thrusters, but not unfelt by the crew. And suddenly, a twisting arc of electricity spun around their bow, and the MACs at the fore shot yellow, first one and then the other.

The Captain's eyes traced the screens above, assessing the impact of the combined assault. Far off, plumes of purple and thick black gas gave a characteristic thermal signature. Hit.

"Get us mobile, prepare to evade incoming." The helmsman complied, bringing the stick around, as the thrusters spun to compensate and the hull groaned. "Klein." The Captain spoke to a screen showing a separate section of the Kearsarge, showing none other than Lieutenant Commander Klein at a station similar to the Captain's own chair. "Bring the Archers online, counterfire as soon as they're up." Klein nodded, acknowledging with a murmur. "Jawohl, Kapitan." It came back with static. Plasma interference.

"Plasma torps fore-starboard, turning to evade!" The helmsman cried, bringing the stick back around again, the vessel stressing with the sudden change of heading. Suddenly, a shadow began to creep in the path of closing plasma as hot as miniature suns. The Cradle.

At the moment when the fleet was at its most vulnerable, scrambling to leave its packed-tight checkerboard formation into a spread out battle line, the Cradle, the massing hulk of a mobile repair station had thrown itself to the front, acting as a shield to the UNSC fleet. It did not fare well. The shadow was broken by purple explosions and jets of fire and debris. The Cradle snapped at three different points, before shattering into a million shards of space trash.

It had bought time, that was what mattered. The fleet had spread out, and began to recharge its MACs, now releasing swarms of Archer missiles. As the Cradle's husk drifted away, the Kearsarge had both main guns back online and had sent thirty-two Archer missiles out, simple thermal seekers. The Covenant fleet was in rags and ruin. The first salvo had brought most of the enemy shields offline, and the second equally strong salvo sent at least a dozen of the foe to Hell.

The enemy now were free to retaliate, and the sensors on the Kearsarge lit up with two-dozen new contacts. Seraphs, the small, maneuverable fighter-bombers which could scarce be dispatched by point-defense. They'd picked their target, and the Kearsarge lit up, spinning out a grid of point-defense fire along all sides, a wall of flak. But perhaps it was not enough, or the Seraphs simply outranged the turrets, as forty-eight plasma torpedoes flew true. Commander Jefferson was sure this was the end, as it had been for dozens, even hundreds of other UNSC ships, swarmed by fighters with which they could not contend.

By all means, the blinding light and burning heat should have cleaved the Kearsarge in threes as it had the Cradle. But this light was different. The ship had not melted to a pulp, nor split at its keel. No, before them laid vast, empty darkness, planets and a sun some distance away. Not Sigma Octanus. The crew was silent for what felt like an eternity. The Captain sat, jaw hanging open.

"What the hell just happened?"
Color me interested.
So, about that discord? I don't mean to push, but I find having a discord which I can quickly communicate in to be pretty useful.
Interested.
Beckett, quiet as he was at the spectacle of engineering the place was, had failed to say anything the entire ride. His positions was furthest from the door, safe enough for a combat medic he had figured. His mind was constantly occupied as they rode in the vehicle which rolled and bobbed like a ship on the ocean - a feeling he was not unfamiliar with - yet it was still nauseating all the same. As it bobbed, he reflected back on his assignment. Fighting for aliens was one thing, but he was a combat medic amongst few Humans. What was he supposed to do if one of these squishy fuckers got hit? What then? Would morphine even work? Another time, perhaps, because there didn't seem to be any of them around here now.

Moreover, as medic, he was designated as the AT specialist as well. Who in their right mind- He ceased that thought, exhaling sharply, looking to the racks where his AT implement was lashed. A MAAWS, a Gustaf or 'Goose' as it's affectionately called, not to mention the ammo bag it came with. The thing felt nearly as heavy as the weapon itself, no matter how many spare rounds he'd tried to push off onto other squad mates with any extra space. He'd counted out what he thought he'd need for a MOUT scenario like this one. At least three HEDP (High Explosive Dual Purpose), the be-all end-all of most combat scenarios, able to shear through infantry formations, light vehicles, and civilian constructed buildings. Accompanied was two HEAT (High Explosive Anti-Tank) warheads for any looming armor threat, with a superplastic jet of copper liquifying the crew and equipment inside most armored vehicles. Last but not least, considering the terrain, he'd placed in a single round of Area Denial Munition, a flat, cylindrical warhead packed with tiny copper balls which expanded outwards like a shotgun blast when fired. Perfect for wiping away a formation of infantry, even could be used through thin walls.

As much of a bitch it all was to carry, he had scammed a couple of the other squad members out of their pack space. Two HEDP were passed around, as was a single HEAT warhead. It left one of each for Beckett to carry and utilize in a pinch. He'd passed the field qualification with it, so who better? But that was musings which now were long past.

They were in the thick of it, to say the least, the stench of sulfur and gunpowder invading Beckett's nostrils and mouth, leaving a metallic taste on his tongue. He had the foresight to at the least uncover his SWD goggles, securing them down over his green eyes. He glanced around, hadn't even fired a shot. They were waiting as their friendlies were engaged left, right, and center. And not only that, they were being targeted, as evidenced by the spray of shrapnel and dust which first alerted the incoming rounds. He recovered as projectile dust pattered off his fatigues and scraped along his goggles and helmet. No metal in it, thank God.

Then the second round snapped, closer, a bigger shower of metal in with dust now, the small fragments losing most of their velocity before impacting around him. He heard someone cry out, not over net. He thumped his headset as he glanced about, keeping his head low and concealing himself entirely within cover. His eyes set on Sergeant Park, slumped over and a small pooling of blood forming at his derrière. His HK was dropped to hang by its sling at his side, as Beckett moved over at a low crouch, using his hands to speed his movements. Once arrived he affirmed to the SL. "I'm here, I'm here!" Beckett used gloved hands to bunch his sleeves up at the forearms, reaching quickly into a PALS loop on his carrier, pulling an olive green square packet with a red cross and black stenciled letters.

"Right, Sarge, gonna need you to drop your trousers!"

© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet