Corvis
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Mar 2, 2011
- Messages
- 149
- Reaction score
- 0
We weren't supposed to be at war, not this fast. I was in command of a training wing out at Commenor, three squadrons of raw nuggets that I had to mold into the fighting edge of the Republic. We'd spent months in the simulators, slowly teaching how they would fly the multi-million credit space craft in combat, and more importantly, how they would live to talk about it afterward. It went well to, we were ready for our first live fire exercise on schedule.
Leading the nuggets out their, I watched the nervous excitement play across their faces. Half an our later, I hovered on repulsorlift watching each of them lift off and head to the rendezvous point. It was supposed to be a simple exercise. Each squadron would take a pass through the planet's moon, taking out dummy ground emplacements as the zipped across it's surface.
As the first squadron wrapped up their run, a burst of static had sounded over the comm. Pirates had dropped out of hyperspace on the face side of Commenor's moon, bearing hard on a pleasure liner, and my wing was the only one in position to intercept. Steeling myself for the worst, I took thirty-six raw recruits into their live combat with scarcely enough time to wish that the Force be with them.
It was a massacre. Of the thirty-six men and women I lead into that furball, only eleven flew out, limping their fighters back to space dock along side the battered, but intact liner. A morbid silence had settled over our hangar bay, though more than half the squadron had made ace in that trial by fire, no one was celebrating. Our own joy at survival was smothered by the sight of the empty landing slots scattered throughout the hangar.
We gathered at the DownTime, the on-base cantina that night, offering a toast to those we had lost while the brass prepared for the military funeral they deserved. It wasn't exactly ideal, but it was routine, or so I thought.
We'd barely finished the first round when the base commander brought the lot of us to attention. He was an unlikable man, grizzled not by years of service, but by the desire to hide his truly calling as a military politician. After a quick exchange of the required pleasantries, I was lead out to the Commodore's office.
Expecting my summonary dismissal, my eye's widened in surprise as he tossed me a copy of the latest digest from the mainstream Commenor news outlet. Unbeknownst to us, the liner had been carrying CEO of the planetary news network. Now, my squadron of barely trained recruits were being paraded about as media darlings. I've never considered myself a military man, but I knew what came next. My protests fell on deaf ears, and I was given a two weeks. Two weeks to take a eleven raw recruits and turn them into something that would survive the inferno of war.
Two weeks later, accompanied by our newly minted squadron of Falken-class snubfighters, we were deployed to the front. Forged in the furnace of combat, we were to be but one of many blades of the Republic. We are Osk'y Squadron.
Last edited by a moderator:
