QJT

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

Nickname:

Appearance:

He trims his beard regularly. He always carries a smile but never shows his teeth. He throws his shoulders back and walks upright, making him appear taller than actual. He wears a plain T-shirt and thick slacks inside his quarters but wouldn't be caught dead outside without his overcoat.

Age: 26 Earth years

Origin: Taurian Concordat, born and raised

Personality: An offensive baseliner. In socials, in combat, in romance, he won't engage before calculating a high probability of "success," or his definition of it, then storm forward with unabashed investment. He can wait hours, days, weeks for this opportunity depending on the situation. He's quite patient and observant, though sparingly few friends realize it. He talks so boorishly that acquaintances dismiss him as an irrelevant triviality. Whether this is a front or a genuine aspect of his character, not even he knows himself. He has pondered that occasionally in moments of self reflection. From others' perspectives, the vast majority of interactions are bright, brief, and brash.

Where are the allegiances of such an elusive fellow? They lie with small creatures. An outcast himself once, he sympathizes. He recognizes death and loss; he's seen and caused plenty across his short lifetime. Nonetheless, he'd open up his hatch to release an entrapped dragonfly should the need arise. If he finds a homeless person, he'll divert his routine to keep the vagrant warm and well fed. He'd do his best to reroute his biped around buildings, roads, and electric lines, if only because he understands their vitality to the common man's everyday activities. His quest to find purpose will cause no collateral damage.

History: The Sulser's dairy industry, like most on Illiushin, was renowned throughout known civilization. The youngest of six siblings, however, Hamazasp was impeded from higher positions of company leadership. He found solace in simulation. His older sister fell ill, and he assumed her duties. Misinterpreting his benevolence as a power grab, she demanded his exile when she recovered. Instead, his mother assigned him a role in their newly-established branch within the Draconis Combine, the family's furthest domain: banishment in every way but literal, thankfully with honor still intact.

He labored diligently towards his newfound duty for little benefit. Unfortunately, despite his product's quality, name recognition prevented it from mainstream attraction. Illiushin's gouda advertised and sold itself with its reputation; Shinonoi colby jack felt off brand and fake. He tried to market through his home network, but they wouldn't return his calls. Finances forced him to downsize, eventually to where he himself operated the machinery. Managing a franchise doomed to fail depressed him, but the levers' and switches' methodical coordination calmed and comforted him. His childhood simulations provided useful advice, but practice was another matter entirely.

He steered the business to its dying day. He personally slaughtered each of the remaining cattle, the last employees long since departed. His hands' work stillborn, he roamed the Inner Sphere for new opportunities. One night, while contracting on Vega VII, he received a quarter life crisis. He wondered how it would feel to handle a metal titan for real. He knew that mechanical operation was different but wanted to know the extent of its difference. Foolhardy? Sure, but he had nothing better to do. Would it kill him? Maybe so, but his parents wouldn't miss him. Very well. He'd sign himself up.

The Fourth Succession War altered the political galaxy's course and shape, but powers that be forgot to include Darius in that restructuring. A planetary government, extremely paranoid that the Buckminster Prefecture couldn't rescue them from "impending conquest" (their words), purchased and established a reconnaissance lance to guard their critical access points. Unexperienced with these matters, they made rookie mistakes aplenty: purchasing mint condition machines, background checks, cutting protection to maximize firepower, decent wages, et cetera. The pool of competent mercenaries was already exhausted several times over, and Hamazasp stood at barrel's bottom.

He was handed a Spider SDR-5K and no further instruction or training. His video games informed him of which dials went where, which was sadly more education than his peers had. Gradually the team became a cohesive unit, but their missions consisted of naught but escorting elected officials' cars. For a single instance, they engaged a gang of bandits who maintained simple motorized infantry and vehicles. As was typical in the Benjamin Military District, no apocalyptic threat descended from the sky, merely a boring peace. Violence was not the First's demise; it was bankruptcy. Its maintenance sapped their sponsor's treasury until the locals resolved to sell the 'Mechs and default on their contractors' payments. Hamazasp's Spartan lifestyle was no stranger to him; he carried on as his comrades faded into obscurity and poverty.

Then Rasalhague came knocking. They offered food, pay, and a brighter scene. He answered the call. Perhaps he'd see some honest to goodness action.

Skills:
Gunnery: 1
Piloting: 2
Guts: 4
Tactics: 5

Abilities:

Misc: Keeps a pocket harmonica, and plays it as the mood arises. Maintains a physical library of novels and reference material, as space allows. For growing up on a world that specializes in cheeses, is oddly lactose intolerant.

Ayrshire (Locust LCT-1V)

Mass/Class: 20T (13T frame) LIGHT Fire Support
Armor: 4T StarSlab
Top Speed: 129.6 km/h run; jump N/A
Armaments:
M Laser
MG x2 (with full pack of ammunition between them)
Heat Sinks: N/A
Quirks:
Compact ’Mech
Narrow/Low Profile
Cramped Cockpit
No/Minimal Arms
Weak Legs

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

Nickname:

Appearance:

He trims his beard regularly. He always carries a smile but never shows his teeth. He throws his shoulders back and walks upright, making him appear taller than he actually is. He wears a plain T-shirt and thick slacks inside his quarters but wouldn't be caught dead outside without his overcoat.

Age: 26 Earth years

Origin: Born and raised in the Taurian Concordat

Personality: An offensive baseliner. In socials, in combat, in romance, he won't engage before calculating a high probability of "success," or his definition of it, then storm forward with full investment. He can wait hours, days, weeks for this opportunity depending on the situation. He's quite patient and observant, though sparingly few friends realize it. He talks so boorishly that acquaintances dismiss him as an irrelevant triviality. Whether this is a front or a genuine aspect of his character, not even he knows himself. He has pondered that occasionally in moments of self reflection. From the perspective of others, the vast majority of interactions are bright, brief, and brash.

Where are the allegiances of such an elusive fellow? They lie with small creatures. After all, he was an outcast once; he sympathizes. He recognizes death and loss; he's seen and caused plenty over his short lifetime. Nonetheless, he'd open up his hatch to release an entrapped dragonfly should the need arise. If he finds a homeless person, he'll divert his routine to keep the vagrant warm and well fed. He'd do his best to reroute his vehicle around buildings, roads, and electric lines, if only because he understands their vitality to the common man's everyday activities. His quest to find purpose will cause no collateral damage.

History: The Sulser's dairy industry, like most on Illiushin, was renowned throughout the known galaxy. The youngest of six siblings, however, Hamazasp was impeded from higher positions of company leadership. He found solace in mech simulations. His older sister fell ill, and he assumed her duties. Misinterpreting his benevolence as a power grab, she demanded his exile when she recovered. Instead, his mother assigned him a role in their newly-established branch within the Draconis Combine, the family's furthest domain: banishment in every way but name, thankfully with honor still intact.

He labored diligently towards his newfound duty for little benefit. Unfortunately, despite his product's quality, brand recognition prevented it from mainstream attraction. Illiushin's gouda advertised and sold itself with its reputation; Shinonoi colby jack felt offbrand and fake. He tried to market through his home network, but they wouldn't return his calls. Finances forced him to downsize, eventually to where he himself operated the machinery. Managing a franchise doomed to fail depressed him, but the levers' and switches' methodical coordination calmed and comforted him. His childhood simulations provided useful advice, but practice was another matter entirely.

He steered the business until its dying day. He personally slaughtered each of the remaining cattle, the last employees long since departed. His hands' work stillborn, he roamed the Inner Sphere for new opportunities. One night, while contracting on Vega VII, he received a quarter life crisis. He wondered how it would feel to handle a metal titan for real. He knew that mechanical operation was different but wanted to know the extent of its difference. Foolhardy? Sure, but he had nothing better to do. Would it kill him? Maybe so, but his parents wouldn't miss him. Very well. He'd sign himself up in Rasalhague.

Skills:
Gunnery: 2
Piloting: 4
Guts: 3
Tactics: 3

Abilities:

Misc: Keeps a pocket harmonica, and plays it as the mood arises. Maintains a physical library of novels and reference material in his cockpit, as space allows. For growing up on a world that specializes in cheeses, is oddly lactose intolerant.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Oof, those are some long posts. I don't know if I'll be able to maintain posts of that size on a regular basis, but I can try.

Are my character and faction accepted? I haven't heard or seen any evidence of the acceptance since editing my faction's territory.

Rise of Rasalhague - A "mostly" canon BattleTech mercenary roleplay for mech enjoyers

Hamazasp Sulser

Nickname:

Appearance:

He trims his beard regularly. He always carries a smile but never shows his teeth. He throws his shoulders back and walks upright, making him appear taller than he actually is. He wears a plain T-shirt and thick slacks inside his quarters but wouldn't be caught dead outside without his overcoat.

Age: 26 Earth years

Origin: Born and raised in the Taurian Concordat

Personality: An offensive baseliner. In socials, in combat, in romance, he won't engage before calculating a high probability of "success," or his definition of it, then storm forward with full investment. He can wait hours, days, weeks for this opportunity depending on the situation. He's quite patient and observant, though sparingly few friends realize it. He talks so boorishly that acquaintances dismiss him as an irrelevant triviality. Whether this is a front or a genuine aspect of his character, not even he knows himself. He has pondered that occasionally in moments of self reflection. From the perspective of others, the vast majority of interactions are bright, brief, and brash.

Where are the allegiances of such an elusive fellow? They lie with small creatures. After all, he was an outcast once; he sympathizes. He recognizes death and loss; he's seen and caused plenty over his short lifetime. Nonetheless, he'd open up his hatch to release an entrapped dragonfly should the need arise. If he finds a homeless person, he'll divert his routine to keep the vagrant warm and well fed. He'd do his best to reroute his vehicle around buildings, roads, and electric lines, if only because he understands their vitality to the common man's everyday activities. His quest to find purpose will cause no collateral damage.

History: The Sulser's dairy industry, like most on Illiushin, was renowned throughout the known galaxy. The youngest of six siblings, however, Hamazasp was impeded from higher positions of company leadership. He found solace in mech simulations. His older sister fell ill, and he assumed her duties. Misinterpreting his benevolence as a power grab, she demanded his exile when she recovered. Instead, his mother assigned him a role in their newly-established branch within the Draconis Combine, the family's furthest domain: banishment in every way but name, thankfully with honor still intact.

He labored diligently towards his newfound duty for little benefit. Unfortunately, despite his product's quality, brand recognition prevented it from mainstream attraction. Illiushin's gouda advertised and sold itself with its reputation; Shinonoi colby jack felt offbrand and fake. He tried to market through his home network, but they wouldn't return his calls. Finances forced him to downsize, eventually to where he himself operated the machinery. Managing a franchise doomed to fail depressed him, but the levers' and switches' methodical coordination calmed and comforted him. His childhood simulations provided useful advice, but practice was another matter entirely.

He steered the business until its dying day. He personally slaughtered each of the remaining cattle, the last employees long since departed. His hands' work stillborn, he roamed the Inner Sphere for new opportunities. One night, while contracting on Vega VII, he received a quarter life crisis. He wondered how it would feel to handle a metal titan for real. He knew that mechanical operation was different but wanted to know the extent of its difference. Foolhardy? Sure, but he had nothing better to do. Would it kill him? Maybe so, but his parents wouldn't miss him. Very well. He'd sign himself up in Rasalhague.

Skills:
Gunnery: 1
Piloting: 2
Guts: 4
Tactics: 5

Abilities:

Misc: Keeps a pocket harmonica, and plays it as the mood arises. Maintains a physical library of novels and reference material in his cockpit, as space allows. For growing up on a world that specializes in cheeses, is oddly lactose intolerant.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

I have edited my application. The only aspect I've improved is the dossier under "Territory."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

@tundrafrog1124 It appears that Area 12 is mostly undiscovered and left available for future content. If it’s permissible, I’d like to stake the Pinochle’s claim in that location. If not, Areas 25 and 11 suffice!

Vault 48’s intention is to grow any outpost into a full-fledged settlement, but the current expedition doesn’t have the manpower to make the outpost self-sustainable. They will allocate space for a farmstead, but it will remain fallow. There will be a single erected structure with a brick foundation and a wooden upper half. Largely, it will act as a supply depot. Supplies will arrive from Bishop (or another nearby outpost), to be either stored or traded with locals. I read that there is a nearby cave; the expedition would use at least its entrance to store goods away from the elements.

In short, it will be a farmstead, but for now it’s just a dwelling and a trading post.

Does this suffice? Would you like me to incorporate this information into my application? Currently, I’m at church and away from my computer, but I can insert this later this evening.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Pinochle Expedition

Faction Name: Pinochle Expedition
Description: A caste-based vault civilization that's interested in claiming territory. It considers itself outside the jurisdiction of the New California Republic and so is responsible for several illegal operations (smuggling, etc.). Still, it maintains strict rules and discipline. Its intention is to build relations and gather information for future expansion and development opportunities.

Territory: The Pinochle Expedition coordinated with the Happy Trails Caravan and the Caananites to establish a homestead in New Vegas's Northern Passage. In exchange for recognizing Vault 48's exclusive ownership of a plot of land roughly twenty-six acres in size, both factions would have free access to Vault 48's trade networks, protection from banditry, and military support against potential threats.

Vault 48 intends for the colony to ultimately sustain itself. With only four people currently to guard and protect it, however, the fields there remain fallow. In the meantime, temporary construction "kings" have constructed a single story headquarters out of brick and lumber. The building serves as a supply depot, fueled by goods from Bishop. Excess supplies can be traded with outsiders, with the Happy Trails Caravan and the Caananites receiving preference.

Sphere of influence: Bishop, CA, traveling southwards around Death Valley into Las Vegas. Technically not New California Republic, though insufficiently strong to hold its claim should the NCR come a-knocking.

Force Composition: A couple hundred civilians, about fifty of whom are military-age and capable, organized into teams of three or four. Ultimately, only about a couple dozen armed soldiers are in the local area ready to assist, though that might change if interests are severely threatened. The team assigned to New Vegas specifically is four strong.

History: The old township of Bishop, CA was the site of Vault 48. Every newborn was assigned a playing card, nines through aces in each of the four suits, in random order. Their only instructions were to never lose their personal cards, as they held great significance. While the "significance" was never explained, the inhabitants almost immediately split themselves into suit-based clans and organized themselves into number-based ranks. Those who lost their card were immediately expelled from the vault.
The arbitrary ranking was both a curse and a blessing. Arbitrary leadership led to some very poor decisions in the vault's history. However, once the vault reopened, Vault 48 already maintained a rigid enough structure to establish a solid government in the wastes. Society became a well-oiled machine. When the NCR was discovered, the faction offered nothing that Vault 48 didn't claim to already have in spades. Vault 48 was thus never incorporated into a larger entity.

Independent sovereignty had its benefits. Less than savory company found shelter there; illicit business passed through and made the region respectably well-off. When the Mojave turned green, however, it became increasingly clear that Vault 48 could no longer remain under the radar of hungrier nations. Thankfully, a very competent man rose to leadership: Henry Hinshaw, the Ace of Clubs. He brought the other suits to heel and set up a network of alliances and outposts, hoping to make Vault 48 both stronger and more reputable. His reforms mitigated the disadvantages of the caste system while capitalizing on its benefits. Most applicably, he assigned teams of three or four to scout out locations and collect information.

Danny "Nines" Floyd

Name: Danny "Nines" Floyd

Appearance: Danny is far from the visage of a leader: short (5' 5"), a tad overweight, with a big blonde Dutch beard. His wavy hair reaches down to his eyes; they'd block his eyes' expressions completely if the sunglasses he wears didn't do that already. He's fully covered, head to toe, to keep the radiation from touching his skin. Particularly noteworthy are his big black gloves and solid brown galoshes. A playing card, the Nine of Clubs, is tattooed onto his upper arm. He tends to slouch, preferring to lean on his shovel rather than stand at attention whenever the situation calls for it.

Affiliation: Pinochle Expedition
Previous Affiliations: Club Clan
Gear/Equipment: Shovel, Harmonica, Wrench

Background: Danny was assigned the Nine of Clubs at birth. In prior generations this meant a fate of sanitation, hard labor, and other menial tasks. This was the case for Danny's formative years. Once, he claimed to have "lost his card," hoping that exile would liberate him from servitude. The Overseer discovered that Danny had in fact hidden his card, and Danny was given double work as punishment.

Hinshaw's reforms changed everything for Danny. Citizens under Hinshaw's mentorship had status over citizens of other suits, regardless of number. The Ace of Clubs remembered Danny's wanderlust and specifically assigned him the task of establishing an outpost in New Vegas. He was given a set of resources and his choice of any three "cards." Danny chose the Queen of Spades and the Jack of Diamonds, whose scandalous marriage had earned his respect. He also chose his personal sweetheart, the Nine of Hearts, with whom he someday hoped to follow suit and repeat the scandal.

Rise of Rasalhague - A "mostly" canon BattleTech mercenary roleplay for mech enjoyers

Howdy! I'm interested, and hope to apply soon!

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Salutations. I figure this would be an interesting roleplay. The only Besthesda games I've played are mobile, so forgive me if my theming is slightly off. Still, I'll try to adhere to lore as best as I'm able.

Please expect an application by the end of the week.

Noble Arms - The ASEAN War [Moved to New Thread]

Municipality of Lingayen - 10/11/2022, 18:26 UTC+8

Caffeine this early in the evening would on any other night have been an abysmal idea. Yet tonight, Rear Admiral Adrián Abasolo maintained a full pot of coffee and a large mug beside him. Jasmine had been sweet enough to craft it. He preferred a completely uninventive drink: hot water and Indonesian grounds.

In the twelve hours between dismissal and reconvening, the admiral's civilian staff had shuffled relevant equipment into Sison Auditorium. After this morning's fiasco, he figured that direct communication with his assets would assuage concerns and strengthen trust. Not everything could be repositioned, though, hence the band of wires taped to and running along the bottom of the wooden floor.

He was alone at his desk, though a station for each remotely-involved officer took its place along the walls. Security was postitioned at each entrance and egress of the room, because a little paranoia never hurt anyone. To his right, five chairs in two rows greeted him. The blackboard beside them faced the main doors of the facility with the following language:

Irregular Team A:
1st Lt. Noel Alonso
2nd Lt. Indra Larsdottir
Sgt. Nil —
Ms. Callie Lidman
Mr. Nico Makri

The chairs and blackboard to his left were the mirror image, with the exception of the blackboard's scribblings:

Irregular Team B:
Pvt. Kaitlyn Price
Agent Myron Makaraig
Ms. Hannie Cavalet
Mr. Iker Orozco
Ms. Lei Qingshe

The assignments were strictly based upon cohesion between special abilities. Still, Abasolo winced one last time that leadership roles so heavily favored the first team. Nonetheless, it wasn't his first discomfort when arranging this mission. The remaining chairs were positioned across from him, with their blackboard simply declaring, "Reserves." The space between the three sections was a simple square.

Beside him was a speaker, through which Abasolo hoped to broadcast reports from the field and so maintain transparency throughout the chain of command. Soldiers operate best when they understand the current situation. At least, such was his philosophy. He nonetheless maintained headphones, like all his officers. Several paces behind him was a sizable screen which displayed a virtual map of the South China Sea with live updated positions of deployed ASEAN assets.

The Arms Masters shuffled in with varying times and punctualities, yet another discomfort Abasolo bore. Still, he requested 1800 for a reason. The operation was to commence at 1826, which allowed ample delay. Until then, Admiral Abasolo stood up, moved into the empty square, and addressed the crowd at attention. "I haven't heard any complaints, so I'll receive your attendance as a gesture of undivided support. You've heard general outlines of the mission thus far; I figured I should clarify further. If some of this is old news to you, it's because I want to ensure that everyone is up to speed.

"The QRS [Abasolo presently didn't bother to expand the acronym] is located at Mischief Reef, which is currently under siege. We cannot teleport supplies to the region, and so we attempt to run this blockade. To this end, the Australians have leased us two auxiliary oiler replenishment ships, His Majesty's Australian Ships Supply and Stalwart, under the command of Commodore Heather Munro, to carry what our allies require. We have contributed two frigates and a corvette to escort them. The Indonesians have similarly contributed two frigates and three corvettes.

He stood at ease; formalities could wait until after the engagement. "The PLA would very likely notice this and send its full local fleet to intercept this blockade run. In order to divert their attention, or failing that their resources, we have set up a joint Indonesian-Filipino strike fleet comprised of small, nimble boats and submarines to harass the enemy. Both operations will occur simultaneously, so keep focused for the duration of this engagement.

"I've assigned two teams of five. If either prong of the offensive is under duress, I will provide coordinates and a location to Myron and signal "go" to one team, commencing with "A." When selected, you will step forward, and Myron will teleport you to those coordinates. From there you will manage whatever threat presents itself to your current fleet. If possible, you may return to these headquarters to await further orders once the threat is neutralized. In lieu of that, five additional Masters will reoccupy your seats as a new makeshift assembly, which I will employ as the battle progresses.

"To be abundantly clear: protecting the Supply and Stalwart is our primary objective. If you must choose between sinking Chinese ships or protecting our fleet, choose the latter. If you must choose which ships to save, prioritize the Supply and the Stalwart. The escort will attempt to avoid any confrontation; when operating on the escort, I suggest you do the same."

With that, he turned to his officers, announcing within earshot of the Arms Masters. "You all have your orders. To victory or defeat, let's make this a flawless exercise." He returned to his station and pressed a button. "Milkfish. Come in, Milkfish. We seem to be having problems with our radio. Is everything good on your end?"

Reed Tablemount - 10/11/2022, 18:26 UTC+8

THE DIVERSION

"Milkfish reads you; give us a moment," Commodore Arlene Roxas responded. She collected the Romeo flag and stepped outside the bridge of the BRP Ramon Alcaraz. She knew the general location of her target, but she still needed to readjust her sight in the rapidly approaching twilight. She waved her flag out towards the distance.

The man on the other end would be Commodore Harta Lucas, her Indonesian counterpart. She'd told him to watch for her signal, and, sure enough, she saw the Charlie flag waving from the rear deck of the KRI Alamang. She trotted back inside and resumed her response. "Affirmative, Pearl. Everything's good on our end."

"Excellent. And you, Carabao?"

"Affirmative on our end," replied a third voice.

"Very well. Return to your duties."

The Operation Commences

The Admiral had given them his permission and blessing; the operation was a go. A few dozen nautical miles away, an allied fleet of ten large vessels would be starting their engines. She placed her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. "Well, boys, let's make our navy proud tonight. Half ahead." The familiar drone pierced the silence.

Oddly enough, each of the Indonesian missile boats was roughly a tenth the size of her current flagship, yet her vessel had a faster maximum speed. Even so, the Alamang zipped forward, its fellow Clurit-classes riding its wake. It made sense on an individual level; the missile boat's difficulty to hit depended on its speed. After a minute, though, the Indonesian boats were getting a little too far out ahead to rely on her support.

Roxas paced for a few seconds. She didn't want to break radio silence so soon in the operation, but she did need to cover for Lucas. "Alright, full ahead." The humming grew louder. Roxas tried to spot Harta's flagship through her binoculars, and even then she had difficulty.

Suddenly, a spotlight shone on it.

She could easily identify it now, but so had the Chinese. She spotted the small flashes of the Chinese… corvette's?… autocannons, followed by flashes of the Indonesians' own. The Alamang had difficulty spotting its target, but her sister ship Terapang had none whatsoever. The PLA corvette was the first ship to be hit, but the Alamang, despite its deft zigzagging, was the first vessel to be sunk.

A Chinese autocannon hit where it shouldn't have, and the fuel tanks of the Alamang went up in a blaze of orange light. Doubtless the PLA knew exactly how many ASEAN brought to the table. Beyond that, the explosion allowed her to see… seven? seven! additional Chinese corvettes at various distances from here to the horizon. Well, it certainly was a distraction. She broke radio silence.

Municipality of Lingayen - 10/11/2022, 18:37 UTC+8

"Pearl! Come in, Pearl!"

The admiral nearly leapt at the call. "Milkfish, is that you?"

The sound of an explosion, followed by the blap-blapping of large arms fire replied before Milkfish even got the chance. "Affirmative. Alamang is down, and they just nabbed the Kujang. Commodore Harta is incapacitated. Repeat, Harta is-"

Well, that could kill morale. He turned off the speaker and equipped his headphones. All his soldiers heard would come from him.

"How many? In what direction? How far away?"

"I spotted eight of them, roughly nine o'clock to eleven o'clock. They vary by distance; we're about a nautical mile out from the closest one."

One nautical mile? That's within machine gun range; way too close for a patrol ship of that size. Commodore Roxas knew better than that.

"You're way too close. Pull back; put some distance between you and the enemy."

"Full astern, right full rudder!" The shriek of a missile. Another explosion. "Pulling back, sir. They've hit another missile boat. They've got their spotlight on the Andres Bonifacio now."

"Is the captain engaging in evasive maneuvers?"

"He is, but they were able to track the missile boats. They certainly can with our patrol boats!"

The admiral freed an ear from his headphones and pointed at Irregular Team A. "10.868383, 116.630628. Deck of the BRP Ramon Alcaraz. Your target is a PLA corvette about one nautical mile away, at approximately ten o'clock."

He stood up. His baritone voice was calm and resolute. "Go."