Two days' easy cruising put the PINK MIST back in Alliance territory. They had assumed a lazy orbit around a small planet which had an unbreathable atmosphere comprised mainly of carbon dioxide along with a few trace elements. Nasty and perfect. The crew spent the days teaching as well as learning the complex systems of the Dreadnaught.
Just before the docking clamps had released the PINK MIST from Purgatory, Alice's avatar made one more unimpeded cyber-run. She wasn't even detected. Fifty one milliseconds.
The fighters, now up to their full complement of fifty, had all been modified by the techbots and the contractors while at the station. Now, they dodged and darted around the huge ship like fireflies in simulated attack games. They worked with the gunnery crews, acting as targets and simulating assaults on the Dreadnaught; similar to the Lone Wolf games they had played around Purgatory.
Hitchcock's Horrors and Specter's Saints used the lower levels of the ship to practice close quarter assault tactics, along with speed drills...they ran headlong down corridors and did their best not slam into the walls at the far end.
Commanded by a gruff, lanky former Stellar Marine named Don Rathberger, the "Meat Squad," those whom Charleen had termed, "throwaways," joined in these games to hone their skills and tactics: squad light assaults, room clearing, and close quarters battle. Occasionally, one would purposely step in front of a powered suit as it thundered down the corridor, the PS driver instructed to avoid them at all costs rather than run over them, as normally would be done on the field of battle.
Quillan stood with hands on hips as she watched the three groups working to become a cohesive unit.
"SPECTER! HITCHCOCK! RATHBERGER!" she yelled, unable to pick them out of the melee. "FRONT AND CENTER!"
A powered suit dropped the meat body in its grasp, turned and ran toward the captain, pursued closely by a fully geared combat soldier. From the other end of the hallway, two huge thuds were heard as a pair of armored suits were roughly shoved out of the way so a third could get past and run to the captain, as well.
Once clear of the mayhem surrounding them, the faceplates on the huge powered armor suits went up, revealing the faces of the two mercenary commanders. Don took off his face-protected helmet.
"Well, guys?" she asked. "How are drills coming along?"
Rathberger rolled a sore shoulder and sniffed a small trickle of blood beneath his nose. He'd been thrown into a wall.
"Overall, they're looking pretty damn good, Cap'n," he said. "Always have the assholes and the 'needs improvement' crowd, but I'd take 'em all into a fight." He spat a glob of blood on the deck, frowning as a tooth was seen in the puddle. He bent to pick it up, stuffed it in a pocket. "I'll take care of this later."
"You'll take care of it now," Quillan replied coolly, hiking a thumb over her shoulder at the elevator. He sighed and headed off to the medical bay. "We're not in combat."
Watching him go, Specter remarked, "You've got to admire his commitment, Captain."
"Indeed, I do," she turned to look up at the two suited warriors. "But, during practice runs, we can afford a bit of leeway. How are your troopers doing in these things?"
Hitchcock let out a belly laugh.
"Captain," he said, humor in his voice, "some of mine don't want to get out of them. After some of the pure shitsuits we've been in, these are four room apt-cubes. They've taken to them and can hold up against the hottest suit on the market...hands down. The Horrors can kick ass in anything that moves."
"While I don't share his aptitude for embellishment, Captain," said Specter, "I will also concur that my troops are perfectly capable in these suits."
"Great!" Quillan smiled, narrowing her eyes. "Ever done TMD's in a never-tested suit?"
The Thirty Mile Drop, or TMD, was designed to minimize shuttle craft usage, as well as get a powered soldier onto a planet as quickly as possible. In combat scenarios, the dropship would assume a low orbit, moving as rapidly as possible around a planet in order to be harder to hit with missiles or lasers. The suits would then fire their own thrusters to achieve the proper trajectory for entry into a breathable atmosphere and join up with squadmates. Since there was almost no oxygen present on this planet, the suits would fall virtually straight down.
Each suit's own computer would control descent rate, tactical formation and, most importantly, landing procedures.
Quillan sat in her captain's chair, Alice beside her, both staring at the large viewscreen which dominated the front wall. The screen displayed several views around the PINK MIST, in one corner showing the powered armor bay, it's huge door open to space.
Six rows of four columns of the powered suits were spaced equidistant in the center of the bay.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "Lifesigns are being monitored closely. If an abort is called for any reason, you will have exactly one second before your suits lock and emergency thrusters will bring you back up to the ship.
"If there is anyone who does not wish to take part in this exercise, simply break formation and move back against an interior bulkhead. Remember, these suits are experimental and you don't get paid if you're dead. There will be zero repercussions if you decide against this exercise.
"I will give you sixty seconds to determine if you want to trust your life to an experiment. The clock begins now."
The suits all stood immobile in the bay.
Fifteen seconds.
A figure from Hitchcock's Horrors stepped out of line, turned to the camera, saluted smartly, and strode to stand next to the wall.
Thirty seconds.
None moved.
Forty five seconds.
Two suits from Specter's Saints stepped out, saluted, and joined the one from Hitchcock's Horrors.
Sixty seconds.
"Your time has expired. Lieutenant Mansberg is now your drop officer."
She sat back as Muffin's bass rumble sounded around the bridge.
"Chase craft, report when ready."
"Chase craft, ready," came the acknowledgment from the four fighter craft who would watch the powered armor fall to the ground, thirty miles below.
"Central Comm, report when ready."
"Central Comm is ready, Drop Officer." Muffin's deep voice responded from the communication station, Amanda absorbed in monitoring all frequencies at once.
"Warriors, report when ready."
"Horrors ready."
"Saints ready."
"All stations report as ready. Attention all PM flights, clear the area around the drop bay. Warriors, stand in the door."
Charleen held her breath as she stood next to Amanda, her eyes riveted on the screen, watching the suits move to the very brink of nothingness.
"Ready drop in five...four...three...two...one...drop...drop...drop."
At the command, the first suits in line simply stepped off the edge and were instantly gone as gravity took over, the next row of suits stepping forward to take their places at the edge. One by one, the rows dwindled to zero.
Muffin turned in his seat to face Quillan.
"All warriors are away, ma'am," he reported.
The maneuvering jets of the powered armor turned them to a head-down position so the drivers were better able to gauge the planet below and make minor course adjustments of their own, overriding the computer's suggested trajectory. At this altitude without the aid of visual enhancements, all they could make out were a few seas and oceans delineated by land. As they dropped and the terrain grew clearer, they could make out large boulders and mountains. A probe sent ahead of them by two minutes marked their landing zone and fed a hazy gray video to the suits of the surrounding area. A decent spot to land; at least none of the rocks were larger than a one-man fighter.
Hitchcock and Specter flipped switches in their suits to activate blinking marker lights, and ordered their respective squads to close formation, queuing on the light. Blips on their heads-up displays showed the squads reacting accordingly.
"Horrors, hard ground in two minutes. Saints, hard ground in two minutes, thirty seconds. Get set," said Muffin. The suits turned upright so they could land on their feet.
Nose down as they followed the suits, the chase craft flipped side ways to fly tight spirals around them.
"PM chase flight," came Skittle's voice, the flight leader, "visibility's getting tight. Glue your eyes to your sensors and open the flight path by five miles. Everyone needs room on this one."
The massive suit's power units were small specialized fusion generators, able to consume most gases and convert the matter into exhaust. In this case, the intakes sucked up the carbon dioxide atmosphere, stripped off the carbon molecules and converted the flammable oxygen molecules into fuel. A double benefit, actually, as the some of the oxygen was pumped into the air supply holding tanks, replacing that used by the warriors. The fuel was ignited, and the powered armor descended on columns of fire. The scene would have been quite spectacular and frightening if anyone was around to see it. The excess carbon matter could either be shunted into a small container for later processing by the ship overhead, or in this case, simply vented, leaving a fine gray trail of particles.
Massive thumps and reverberations as the suits hit the ground, the thrusters shutting off as soon as they sensed the relief of weight.
"Horrors, report," ordered Hitchcock tersely, turning to look around the gloomy hazy area. Other suits landed near him and reports from his unit indicated that all had made it safely.
"Saints, report," came Specter's voice. He too looked around, his radar screen indicating that Hitchcock's Horrors were a half mile distant. Not shabby for dropping from a height of thirty miles. He checked the clock and saw that the entire drop had taken just under thirteen minutes.
Aboard PINK MIST, Hitchcock's, then Specter's voices emanated from a small brown-eyed, brown-haired girl saying that all suits were on the ground, drivers were safe, and the Thirty Mile Drop could be considered a success.
While on the planet, the warriors were given a few extra hours to practice maneuvers and mock battles. Any chance to test suits and abilities.
