Final Touchdown
Posted: 2004-05-27 12:23pm
Hi all, just to see what you guys think of my article: Final Touchdown. This is based on StarCraft-inspired Universe in www.omniversezero.com. For the unfamiliar terms and names (units and all), scroll down and see the reference links.
Final Touchdown
New Antioch, Shakuras
“Foxtrot-Eight-Four-One, Starport Five-Bravo-Alpha’s secured, climb down to eleven thousand feet.” As the voice from the control tower guiding them down beneath the rampaging Tri’Crad forces, Captain Jane Foster entered the new figures into the interface of the TFF Dropship “Safebox” to guide her descent. She could hear the Brownings’ Spacelane of Steel playing in the background, despite the fact that the base could be nothing more than a bad memory within an hour.
Though the black stratocumulus clouds punctured by plasma blobs and photon charges covered the skies over New Antioch, Foster remained calm. With more than 200 in-missions’ experience, the 32-year-old pilot had defied the impossible, countless times before and had flown in and out of raging, infernal battlefields delivering vital equipments and military personnel. She’d been expecting much worse scenarios before DS-F841 departed the orbital platforms that moonrise of February 15, 2503.
She had already finished three back-and-fourth trips within the last two hours and after delivering her loads in the base, she would have to refuel in the orbitals. After that, she would be on her way back to ferry more troops in and wounded warriors out to the orbitals at the Asteroid Rings for immediate Recall. Foster glanced across at Kashnot, her assistant pilot. Kashnot had been in training for at least fifteen missions in his favorite Disciple, this time it is neither his ship nor a simulation.
The heavy, least expected attack had already devastated two major Protoss-TFF bases bordering New Antioch within the last two and a half hours alone, and is now pounding on the main stronghold. With the majority of its military forces deployed in the ongoing Zerg-Wodan attacks on the Gletharis system from where Artanis and his ranking officers had departed to plan more defensive repositioning in Aiur, the TFF has already asked for some assistance from the newly formed Terran Cartel based on Braxis, which has been granted only on a conditional basis. ETA would be approximately 2 hours, considering the distance, and them not being a priority, plus the amount of PGC blockades set up around the system by the Tri’Crad forces.
“Seven hostiles approaching our way from beneath!” Kashnot reported. “Make that nine!”
“What?” answered Foster “Banking ten degrees left” and hoped the clouds would help them evade the oncoming onslaught. An overkill, thought Foster as she twisted the control column with all her might.
“Fifty meters…” Kashnot announced. “…thirty meters…” Kashnot closed his glowing eyes “Impact!”
Suddenly, 9 Scythes went past their right front, about 10 meters away and continued gliding upwards and disappeared behind the clouds. Two seconds later, loud, crumbling noises boomed above them.
“What the…” exclaimed Foster. “I thought we’re history.” Then, huge, entire metallic sections blazed their way down in freefall about 50 meters from their right as smaller fiery debris slammed the wind shield. I hope it’s not ours, Foster thought. Sadly, she was wrong. Those were portions of a Deacon-Class Destroyer sliced off by the automated blades of Scythes. More than three hundred tons of pure metal sliced to pieces. Fifty men and women were instantly incinerated with the fusion reactor explosions. The rest fell down some 26,000 feet to their doom.
“Reducing air speed to 280”, Foster yelled. Suddenly, clear liquid smashed onto their windows and immediately blazed with bluish-green flame. The control column trembled. Fire alarms yelled one after the other. She raced to push buttons to redirect system lines passing beneath the fiery sections of the vessel but more and more indicators flashed red.
A loud, screeching noise sounded through the cockpit just seconds later as they dropped through 23,000 feet. Then there was unusual silence: the melodious hum of the ship’s main engines suddenly ceased. Foster desperately tried to see the engines from her side of the cockpit through the bluish flames. Kashnot did the same. Though the flames covered the glass almost entirely, they had a good look on both engines. They were on fire.
She immediately flipped switches to turn off the main engines and grabbed the thrust levers to manually get a response from the primary auxiliary engines. She eased the levers forward but there was no restraining feedback from the engines. Please respond!, Foster prayed.
Feeling no response from the controls, she gently pulled a lever on her side to try repositioning the twin hover boosters on the tail. Again, they did not respond. Without those boosters, they cannot do a hover-land. They have to do it in the old fashioned way, minus the guiding instruments and engine controls, as near as possible to the base being razed to ruins by semi-organic demons.
“The HMI!” Foster yelled, and then knocked the screen in their front. “The main and primary auxiliary engines are offline!”
What the hell’s happening? Foster thought while she tried touching command buttons to get some response…any response. All the virtual monitors were blank and the gauges that measured the engines’ reactor temperature, gear pressure and booster injectors all pointed to zero. Never in her entire 22-year-career has the main and the primary auxiliary engines simultaneously failed. Yet there is still hope.
“Switching to secondary auxiliary engines,” She shouted, while flipping overhead toggle switches. But instead of showing green, more control system failure indicators flashed in red. “Offline!” She followed up. All engines were offline.
The newly commissioned dropship was now an 80-ton chunk of metal gliding through the heart of the raging battle with eight Guardsmen, eight Saint pilots, two crew and a rack of Apocalypse-2 ISNM warheads in the compartment.
The flame on their windshield diminished as their descent went faster allowing them to see both the intake engines still shrouded with fire. She pushed more buttons and hoped that the engines’ flame dies off. Luckily, they did. Dropping at 3000 feet per minute, they would smash into the heart of the Protoss-TFF stronghold being overrun by Tri’Crad forces within minutes.
Back in the loads section of the main cabin, William Savage noticed the ship was falling too fast. The 26-year-old new recruit told himself not to worry. It’s all right, he thought gripping the bars running down his side. We’ll be landing soon. Still, he felt uneasy.
Seven persons leftward, John Martin, 35, forced himself to stay calm. I’m gonna get there! …gonna kick some Meta’s ass! I’m not gonna die in here!, he thought.
Kashnot pulled the throttles back to “idle,” then yanked the primary auxiliary engine-start lever to fire the ignition systems.
The pilots waited in nerve-wrecking silence, hoping to hear that high-pitched noise. But every indicator remained motionless.
“Nothing.” Kashnot announced.
“Yank it again!” yelled Foster. Kashnot obeyed. Still nothing.
“Shit!”
Then she remembered the LES, a small devise underneath, operating on independent power supply, that can be used to kick-start the auxiliary engines in an emergency.
“Start the LES!”
Kashnot touched some virtual buttons; instantly all the cockpit lights went off, along with all virtual instrument indicators and controls. Not only has the LES failed to fire, but something had cut the power to the ship’s interior - including the Khaydarin Fragment Shield Generator modules – their last chance of making it in one piece.
Kashnot thumbed the transmit button on his mike. “Mayday, mayday,” he said. “This is Delta Sierra Foxtrot-eight-four-one, come in, over.” No sound came back. No hiss. No crackle. The commlink, too, was dead. Kashnot desperately tried to find a psionic link down for guidance but chaos in the Protoss minds was overwhelming.
They were dropping at 240 knots at an altitude of 14,000 feet; at this rate of descent, they would crash in fewer than five minutes. Luckily the ship was still horizontally leveled as shown in the gyrometer, one among the 8 instruments that use no power supply.
Foster considered her options. The daughter of Confederate officers, she was a strong, optimistic woman who took her obligations seriously. She vowed to concentrate every fiber of her being on trying to save the passengers. And the Nuclear Missile warheads.
When the cabin lights went out, First officer Jake Mildred was surprised there was no explanatory announcement from the pilot. He released himself from the seatbelts and strode to the cockpit door and opened it. “What’s happened?”
“The engines are out,” Foster said. “Strap your ass back in there and prepare for an emergency landing!”
“Huh?” Mildred said, hoping the pilot might be joking. “Since when did we have a normal and safe landing?
“We’re on fire, damnit!” yelled Foster.
Shocked, Mildred moved through the cabin, telling the others near him that they are crashing.
One Guardsman pressed his commlink and yelled “We’re gonna die!” then quickly reached in his pocket for some gum. He would have been court marshaled for the behavior but what the heck, he thought.
“Shut the fuck up!” shouted another, “We’re gonna be OK. A-O-K! Got that? Now gimme some of that, my throat’s dried up.”
“I’ve got five hundred credits on Blue Rig, that sonomabitch’s gotta win it this time” A Saint pilot mumbled.
“Oh y’know that Vulture’s gonna lose,” replied the other pilot. “coz mine’s gonna win!”
Kashnot pointed to a patch of brightness to port. “If we head south-southwest, maybe we can reach the sea,” he said.
“Or the Ashes’ Eyes” Foster answered. “Yet it’s our only chance.”
If they could reach the coast some 50 kilometers south without being spotted by an Eye and turned into grey goo by nanites, they could try landing on water; black poisonous water. These types of dropships had been known to float for 20 minutes, enough time for complete unloading.
Turning the U-shaped handle of the control column, Foster felt relief knowing she could manipulate the wing ailerons. Onrushing sterile air was spinning the aerial intake fans and providing some pressure for the hydraulic system.
As the ship broke out of the clouds, a dark blue mosaic of cliffs and canyons flashing with bunker machine gun fire, turrets and cannons spread suddenly below. “That’s Antioch,” said Kashnot, recognizing the heavily populated base, half of which now is in total wreck. “Eight thousand feet.”
Foster stared at Kashnot. She realized they wouldn’t make it to the sea. And yet landing on the ground here without the hover boosters would be suicidal. At 240, not even the thick armor can resist the crystal-edged rocks. Shields are still offline. Foster’s mind raced. Then a glint of sparkle caught her eyes. A river!
It was coiled like the intestines of a Zergling and frighteningly narrow – just about twice the ship’s span. Then she noticed a straight section after the coil, perhaps 800 meters long, with a high evacuation bridge sitting at either end.
Her stomach tightened; the margin for error was terrifyingly small. Without power, the ship was uncontrollable, unpredictable-and what’s left of the hydraulic system could shut down completely at any time. If that happened, the ailerons would be unworkable, and she’d have no control at all. No control whatsoever to maneuver between loose missiles, dangling Interceptors and slice-happy Scythes.
“Four thousand feet, speed two hundred forty knots,” reported Kashnot. Through the windows of the cockpit, Proctors, Guardsmen, Zealots, and details of Cardinal Tanks were now clearly visible. Not to mention the onrushing waves of hellspawned Metaphytes, Kindlebugs, Twilights, Radoxes and Ashes razing down at all directions.
“Captain, what about the mud fields?” Kashnot was referring to a series of bluish fields flanking the river bank.
“No,” Foster replied. “We might hit the Basilica walls. The river’s a better option.”
Foster turned the control column left, and the ship began to bank to port.
“Controls?” Kashnot asked.
“There’s still some hydraulic power.”
Kashnot called the altitude again. “Three thousand feet.”
With about sixty seconds before impact, Foster knew she only had one chance to make a counterclockwise turn and aim for the river. Reaching backwards, she banged three times in the closed cockpit door with her fist. “Prepare for emergency landing!” she yelled. She didn’t care if she would be heard or not and she wasn’t sure if the commlinks are still functioning with such enormous background interference.
“Fifteen hundred feet, two hundred forty knots,” said Kashnot.
Perhaps that would be the most terrifying turn she has ever made. Missiles, Photon Charges and Plasma Balls were crisscrossing the skies in every direction, lighting up the twilight atmosphere to an eerie glow. Blazing Interceptors were tumbling down on the canyons, raced by packs of Scythes. They could see Pulsoids diving down and unleashing plasma barrages on unfortunate warriors before unloading more ground forces. Glowing balls of pure destruction were being launched by Kindlebugs, chasing what’s left from several squadrons of Omens, Wraiths, Avengers and Disciples. Thanks to their Protoss engineers for their shields, they would have been reduced to ashes twice as fast.
Just as they were about to complete the turn, tremendous explosions flashed about 200 meters from their nose. They were seeing a huge carcass of a fallen Destroyer mowing down on an array of supply depots, photon cannons, bunkers, turrets and men. The explosion might have ruptured the cruiser’s Tau Particle Accelerators and leaked to the Fusion Reactors that resulted in a small nuclear bubble swallowing everything within a small radius including an unfortunate Dropship and a Shuttle making their way out of the base.
They could see the dropship vomiting its loads – wounded Human and Protoss warriors and medical crews – falling down on the raging hordes of Metaphytes.
Foster’s arms trembled upon the horrific view unfolding right in front of her eyes, yet she managed to hold her tears at bay. Kashnot wasn’t moving. They could clearly see their comrades waving their arms while they drowned under the bursts of plasma weapons and counter charges from both sides. The Shuttle miraculously made it out from the nuclear cloud, smoking its way upwards and disappeared behind the clouds.
Foster juggled the control column, turning the ship in a tight sweep and lining up with the straight reach of river stretching between the two bridges. Without the ship’s sophisticated instruments, all she could rely on was her experience and judgment. The safe landing speed for this ship was no more than 150 knots (280 kilometers per hour), so Foster tugged a knee high lever to lower the wing flaps and slow down. Nothing happened. With no breaking effect, the ship hurtled onward at 240 knots. Too fast! With such a rapid approach, she could fall short or overshoot the landing spot. Ahead through the windscreen was the black waterway flanked by muddy banks. It looked frighteningly narrow. Within seconds, the ship cleared the first bridge: Foster knew she had less than 600 meters before the ship would smash into the second bridge.
Foster’s eyes grew wide upon noticing that the river was extremely shallow and lined with protruding rocks and debris. Kashnot’s suggestion was indeed better. But there was no more time to even shift a few degrees on either side. In a hurtling speed, Foster’s ship roared thunderously over the black water.
Though it could possibly have no effect on the ship’s powerless systems, Foster instinctively hauled back on the control column to get the nose up, which in normal flying conditions would slow their momentum by letting the ship “settle” on a cushion of air before touching down.
Miraculously, the nose did lift slightly before the underside of the tail smacked the water with a sickening crack. The dropship reared like a frightened horse before striking again, the impact punching a hole in the bottom of the fuselage. The passengers screamed as they bumped up and down on their seats. Some belts broke loose from their mountings, catapulting them like pieces of jigsaw puzzles thrown inside a juggled box.
The ship’s second touchdown totally crushed the tail, causing the twin hover engines to dislodge and explode. Kashnot closed his eyes again. Everything was shaking and crumbling.
They were still gliding up and down the river. Foster never let go of the column, still pulling it with all her might. But it was not enough. Hurtling at about 200, the ship smashed against the second bridge with such fury that it burst like a brick wall, crushing the nose like a tin can and causing it to swivel counterclockwise. The ship’s momentum swept it against the river bank and up on the muddy fields. It screeched its way sweeping until it was stopped by the walls of a basilica.
Kashnot felt extreme pain from the bumps on his head. But then he tried to open his eyes and said, “We’re alive!” He looked over to his captain and was shocked to see her impaled against her seat with a huge chunk of rock. He tried to reach for her pulse but he couldn’t move.
For the first time in 180 years, Kashnot let down tears for his dear friend. He tried pulling the rock off but it was too heavy. He wiped his tears off and tried to open the cockpit door to check the others. He couldn’t.
With loud explosions thundering just about everywhere, he climbed through the shattered windshield, immediately stood up and saw the inevitable – an Eye hovering about 20 meters from them.
----End.
Notes:
Know more about the Terran Freedom Faction's History and Battle Units
Know more about the Tri'Crad's General Data, History and Units.
---
Hope you guys can comment. Thanks!
Final Touchdown
New Antioch, Shakuras
“Foxtrot-Eight-Four-One, Starport Five-Bravo-Alpha’s secured, climb down to eleven thousand feet.” As the voice from the control tower guiding them down beneath the rampaging Tri’Crad forces, Captain Jane Foster entered the new figures into the interface of the TFF Dropship “Safebox” to guide her descent. She could hear the Brownings’ Spacelane of Steel playing in the background, despite the fact that the base could be nothing more than a bad memory within an hour.
Though the black stratocumulus clouds punctured by plasma blobs and photon charges covered the skies over New Antioch, Foster remained calm. With more than 200 in-missions’ experience, the 32-year-old pilot had defied the impossible, countless times before and had flown in and out of raging, infernal battlefields delivering vital equipments and military personnel. She’d been expecting much worse scenarios before DS-F841 departed the orbital platforms that moonrise of February 15, 2503.
She had already finished three back-and-fourth trips within the last two hours and after delivering her loads in the base, she would have to refuel in the orbitals. After that, she would be on her way back to ferry more troops in and wounded warriors out to the orbitals at the Asteroid Rings for immediate Recall. Foster glanced across at Kashnot, her assistant pilot. Kashnot had been in training for at least fifteen missions in his favorite Disciple, this time it is neither his ship nor a simulation.
The heavy, least expected attack had already devastated two major Protoss-TFF bases bordering New Antioch within the last two and a half hours alone, and is now pounding on the main stronghold. With the majority of its military forces deployed in the ongoing Zerg-Wodan attacks on the Gletharis system from where Artanis and his ranking officers had departed to plan more defensive repositioning in Aiur, the TFF has already asked for some assistance from the newly formed Terran Cartel based on Braxis, which has been granted only on a conditional basis. ETA would be approximately 2 hours, considering the distance, and them not being a priority, plus the amount of PGC blockades set up around the system by the Tri’Crad forces.
“Seven hostiles approaching our way from beneath!” Kashnot reported. “Make that nine!”
“What?” answered Foster “Banking ten degrees left” and hoped the clouds would help them evade the oncoming onslaught. An overkill, thought Foster as she twisted the control column with all her might.
“Fifty meters…” Kashnot announced. “…thirty meters…” Kashnot closed his glowing eyes “Impact!”
Suddenly, 9 Scythes went past their right front, about 10 meters away and continued gliding upwards and disappeared behind the clouds. Two seconds later, loud, crumbling noises boomed above them.
“What the…” exclaimed Foster. “I thought we’re history.” Then, huge, entire metallic sections blazed their way down in freefall about 50 meters from their right as smaller fiery debris slammed the wind shield. I hope it’s not ours, Foster thought. Sadly, she was wrong. Those were portions of a Deacon-Class Destroyer sliced off by the automated blades of Scythes. More than three hundred tons of pure metal sliced to pieces. Fifty men and women were instantly incinerated with the fusion reactor explosions. The rest fell down some 26,000 feet to their doom.
“Reducing air speed to 280”, Foster yelled. Suddenly, clear liquid smashed onto their windows and immediately blazed with bluish-green flame. The control column trembled. Fire alarms yelled one after the other. She raced to push buttons to redirect system lines passing beneath the fiery sections of the vessel but more and more indicators flashed red.
A loud, screeching noise sounded through the cockpit just seconds later as they dropped through 23,000 feet. Then there was unusual silence: the melodious hum of the ship’s main engines suddenly ceased. Foster desperately tried to see the engines from her side of the cockpit through the bluish flames. Kashnot did the same. Though the flames covered the glass almost entirely, they had a good look on both engines. They were on fire.
She immediately flipped switches to turn off the main engines and grabbed the thrust levers to manually get a response from the primary auxiliary engines. She eased the levers forward but there was no restraining feedback from the engines. Please respond!, Foster prayed.
Feeling no response from the controls, she gently pulled a lever on her side to try repositioning the twin hover boosters on the tail. Again, they did not respond. Without those boosters, they cannot do a hover-land. They have to do it in the old fashioned way, minus the guiding instruments and engine controls, as near as possible to the base being razed to ruins by semi-organic demons.
“The HMI!” Foster yelled, and then knocked the screen in their front. “The main and primary auxiliary engines are offline!”
What the hell’s happening? Foster thought while she tried touching command buttons to get some response…any response. All the virtual monitors were blank and the gauges that measured the engines’ reactor temperature, gear pressure and booster injectors all pointed to zero. Never in her entire 22-year-career has the main and the primary auxiliary engines simultaneously failed. Yet there is still hope.
“Switching to secondary auxiliary engines,” She shouted, while flipping overhead toggle switches. But instead of showing green, more control system failure indicators flashed in red. “Offline!” She followed up. All engines were offline.
The newly commissioned dropship was now an 80-ton chunk of metal gliding through the heart of the raging battle with eight Guardsmen, eight Saint pilots, two crew and a rack of Apocalypse-2 ISNM warheads in the compartment.
The flame on their windshield diminished as their descent went faster allowing them to see both the intake engines still shrouded with fire. She pushed more buttons and hoped that the engines’ flame dies off. Luckily, they did. Dropping at 3000 feet per minute, they would smash into the heart of the Protoss-TFF stronghold being overrun by Tri’Crad forces within minutes.
Back in the loads section of the main cabin, William Savage noticed the ship was falling too fast. The 26-year-old new recruit told himself not to worry. It’s all right, he thought gripping the bars running down his side. We’ll be landing soon. Still, he felt uneasy.
Seven persons leftward, John Martin, 35, forced himself to stay calm. I’m gonna get there! …gonna kick some Meta’s ass! I’m not gonna die in here!, he thought.
Kashnot pulled the throttles back to “idle,” then yanked the primary auxiliary engine-start lever to fire the ignition systems.
The pilots waited in nerve-wrecking silence, hoping to hear that high-pitched noise. But every indicator remained motionless.
“Nothing.” Kashnot announced.
“Yank it again!” yelled Foster. Kashnot obeyed. Still nothing.
“Shit!”
Then she remembered the LES, a small devise underneath, operating on independent power supply, that can be used to kick-start the auxiliary engines in an emergency.
“Start the LES!”
Kashnot touched some virtual buttons; instantly all the cockpit lights went off, along with all virtual instrument indicators and controls. Not only has the LES failed to fire, but something had cut the power to the ship’s interior - including the Khaydarin Fragment Shield Generator modules – their last chance of making it in one piece.
Kashnot thumbed the transmit button on his mike. “Mayday, mayday,” he said. “This is Delta Sierra Foxtrot-eight-four-one, come in, over.” No sound came back. No hiss. No crackle. The commlink, too, was dead. Kashnot desperately tried to find a psionic link down for guidance but chaos in the Protoss minds was overwhelming.
They were dropping at 240 knots at an altitude of 14,000 feet; at this rate of descent, they would crash in fewer than five minutes. Luckily the ship was still horizontally leveled as shown in the gyrometer, one among the 8 instruments that use no power supply.
Foster considered her options. The daughter of Confederate officers, she was a strong, optimistic woman who took her obligations seriously. She vowed to concentrate every fiber of her being on trying to save the passengers. And the Nuclear Missile warheads.
When the cabin lights went out, First officer Jake Mildred was surprised there was no explanatory announcement from the pilot. He released himself from the seatbelts and strode to the cockpit door and opened it. “What’s happened?”
“The engines are out,” Foster said. “Strap your ass back in there and prepare for an emergency landing!”
“Huh?” Mildred said, hoping the pilot might be joking. “Since when did we have a normal and safe landing?
“We’re on fire, damnit!” yelled Foster.
Shocked, Mildred moved through the cabin, telling the others near him that they are crashing.
One Guardsman pressed his commlink and yelled “We’re gonna die!” then quickly reached in his pocket for some gum. He would have been court marshaled for the behavior but what the heck, he thought.
“Shut the fuck up!” shouted another, “We’re gonna be OK. A-O-K! Got that? Now gimme some of that, my throat’s dried up.”
“I’ve got five hundred credits on Blue Rig, that sonomabitch’s gotta win it this time” A Saint pilot mumbled.
“Oh y’know that Vulture’s gonna lose,” replied the other pilot. “coz mine’s gonna win!”
Kashnot pointed to a patch of brightness to port. “If we head south-southwest, maybe we can reach the sea,” he said.
“Or the Ashes’ Eyes” Foster answered. “Yet it’s our only chance.”
If they could reach the coast some 50 kilometers south without being spotted by an Eye and turned into grey goo by nanites, they could try landing on water; black poisonous water. These types of dropships had been known to float for 20 minutes, enough time for complete unloading.
Turning the U-shaped handle of the control column, Foster felt relief knowing she could manipulate the wing ailerons. Onrushing sterile air was spinning the aerial intake fans and providing some pressure for the hydraulic system.
As the ship broke out of the clouds, a dark blue mosaic of cliffs and canyons flashing with bunker machine gun fire, turrets and cannons spread suddenly below. “That’s Antioch,” said Kashnot, recognizing the heavily populated base, half of which now is in total wreck. “Eight thousand feet.”
Foster stared at Kashnot. She realized they wouldn’t make it to the sea. And yet landing on the ground here without the hover boosters would be suicidal. At 240, not even the thick armor can resist the crystal-edged rocks. Shields are still offline. Foster’s mind raced. Then a glint of sparkle caught her eyes. A river!
It was coiled like the intestines of a Zergling and frighteningly narrow – just about twice the ship’s span. Then she noticed a straight section after the coil, perhaps 800 meters long, with a high evacuation bridge sitting at either end.
Her stomach tightened; the margin for error was terrifyingly small. Without power, the ship was uncontrollable, unpredictable-and what’s left of the hydraulic system could shut down completely at any time. If that happened, the ailerons would be unworkable, and she’d have no control at all. No control whatsoever to maneuver between loose missiles, dangling Interceptors and slice-happy Scythes.
“Four thousand feet, speed two hundred forty knots,” reported Kashnot. Through the windows of the cockpit, Proctors, Guardsmen, Zealots, and details of Cardinal Tanks were now clearly visible. Not to mention the onrushing waves of hellspawned Metaphytes, Kindlebugs, Twilights, Radoxes and Ashes razing down at all directions.
“Captain, what about the mud fields?” Kashnot was referring to a series of bluish fields flanking the river bank.
“No,” Foster replied. “We might hit the Basilica walls. The river’s a better option.”
Foster turned the control column left, and the ship began to bank to port.
“Controls?” Kashnot asked.
“There’s still some hydraulic power.”
Kashnot called the altitude again. “Three thousand feet.”
With about sixty seconds before impact, Foster knew she only had one chance to make a counterclockwise turn and aim for the river. Reaching backwards, she banged three times in the closed cockpit door with her fist. “Prepare for emergency landing!” she yelled. She didn’t care if she would be heard or not and she wasn’t sure if the commlinks are still functioning with such enormous background interference.
“Fifteen hundred feet, two hundred forty knots,” said Kashnot.
Perhaps that would be the most terrifying turn she has ever made. Missiles, Photon Charges and Plasma Balls were crisscrossing the skies in every direction, lighting up the twilight atmosphere to an eerie glow. Blazing Interceptors were tumbling down on the canyons, raced by packs of Scythes. They could see Pulsoids diving down and unleashing plasma barrages on unfortunate warriors before unloading more ground forces. Glowing balls of pure destruction were being launched by Kindlebugs, chasing what’s left from several squadrons of Omens, Wraiths, Avengers and Disciples. Thanks to their Protoss engineers for their shields, they would have been reduced to ashes twice as fast.
Just as they were about to complete the turn, tremendous explosions flashed about 200 meters from their nose. They were seeing a huge carcass of a fallen Destroyer mowing down on an array of supply depots, photon cannons, bunkers, turrets and men. The explosion might have ruptured the cruiser’s Tau Particle Accelerators and leaked to the Fusion Reactors that resulted in a small nuclear bubble swallowing everything within a small radius including an unfortunate Dropship and a Shuttle making their way out of the base.
They could see the dropship vomiting its loads – wounded Human and Protoss warriors and medical crews – falling down on the raging hordes of Metaphytes.
Foster’s arms trembled upon the horrific view unfolding right in front of her eyes, yet she managed to hold her tears at bay. Kashnot wasn’t moving. They could clearly see their comrades waving their arms while they drowned under the bursts of plasma weapons and counter charges from both sides. The Shuttle miraculously made it out from the nuclear cloud, smoking its way upwards and disappeared behind the clouds.
Foster juggled the control column, turning the ship in a tight sweep and lining up with the straight reach of river stretching between the two bridges. Without the ship’s sophisticated instruments, all she could rely on was her experience and judgment. The safe landing speed for this ship was no more than 150 knots (280 kilometers per hour), so Foster tugged a knee high lever to lower the wing flaps and slow down. Nothing happened. With no breaking effect, the ship hurtled onward at 240 knots. Too fast! With such a rapid approach, she could fall short or overshoot the landing spot. Ahead through the windscreen was the black waterway flanked by muddy banks. It looked frighteningly narrow. Within seconds, the ship cleared the first bridge: Foster knew she had less than 600 meters before the ship would smash into the second bridge.
Foster’s eyes grew wide upon noticing that the river was extremely shallow and lined with protruding rocks and debris. Kashnot’s suggestion was indeed better. But there was no more time to even shift a few degrees on either side. In a hurtling speed, Foster’s ship roared thunderously over the black water.
Though it could possibly have no effect on the ship’s powerless systems, Foster instinctively hauled back on the control column to get the nose up, which in normal flying conditions would slow their momentum by letting the ship “settle” on a cushion of air before touching down.
Miraculously, the nose did lift slightly before the underside of the tail smacked the water with a sickening crack. The dropship reared like a frightened horse before striking again, the impact punching a hole in the bottom of the fuselage. The passengers screamed as they bumped up and down on their seats. Some belts broke loose from their mountings, catapulting them like pieces of jigsaw puzzles thrown inside a juggled box.
The ship’s second touchdown totally crushed the tail, causing the twin hover engines to dislodge and explode. Kashnot closed his eyes again. Everything was shaking and crumbling.
They were still gliding up and down the river. Foster never let go of the column, still pulling it with all her might. But it was not enough. Hurtling at about 200, the ship smashed against the second bridge with such fury that it burst like a brick wall, crushing the nose like a tin can and causing it to swivel counterclockwise. The ship’s momentum swept it against the river bank and up on the muddy fields. It screeched its way sweeping until it was stopped by the walls of a basilica.
Kashnot felt extreme pain from the bumps on his head. But then he tried to open his eyes and said, “We’re alive!” He looked over to his captain and was shocked to see her impaled against her seat with a huge chunk of rock. He tried to reach for her pulse but he couldn’t move.
For the first time in 180 years, Kashnot let down tears for his dear friend. He tried pulling the rock off but it was too heavy. He wiped his tears off and tried to open the cockpit door to check the others. He couldn’t.
With loud explosions thundering just about everywhere, he climbed through the shattered windshield, immediately stood up and saw the inevitable – an Eye hovering about 20 meters from them.
----End.
Notes:
Know more about the Terran Freedom Faction's History and Battle Units
Know more about the Tri'Crad's General Data, History and Units.
---
Hope you guys can comment. Thanks!