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Author	Topic: Black Bantha Squadron - TIE Fighter, post ESB timeline
Krash Title: RSA Emeritus Registered: Oct '00	Date Posted: 9/20/06 8:54pm Subject: Black Bantha Squadron - TIE Fighter, post ESB timeline - Date Edited: 9/23/06 11:23pm (3 edits total) Edited By: Krash
	EDIT: 9/23/06 Locked and reposted in an easier to read format. I've been working on this story off and on for a couple years on my FF's own website, but I wanted to get some outside feedback. It's a story about a squadron of TIE pilot cadets, told mainly through from the perspective of one pilot during an interview session after a major space battle. If that sounds vague (that is done on purpose) because I have a few curve-balls to throw at ya'll. Alot of my inspiration came from the group of us working on TIE pilot costumes, which is interesting to take a little bit of my friends' personality and tweek it so nobody can claim that I'm writing a commentary on how I look at them as a person. I also liked thatidea that some Imperial units assign callsigns to one another. Have fun, let me know what you think. Black Bantha Squadron Imperial Training flight #5215 (The Black Banthas) - ISD Scorpion Jon Crikan (Krash) Hobbie Mikilzun (Chase) Anrev Prowd (Zig) Will Crais (Raptor) Mara Jade/Aeryn Antilles (Jade) Amalia Debetta (Sticks) Imperial Academy Captain Kraven - ISD Scorpion Commander Beltayn (Ironhand) Lieutenant Radke - Caradia flight instructor, 1st officer ISD Scorpion -----signature----- Rebel Legion - Ohio captain Midwest Base http://phpnuke.midwestbase.com/ IN-5562 Ohio Garrison 501st
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Krash Title: RSA Emeritus Registered: Oct '00	Date Posted: 9/20/06 8:54pm Subject: RE: Black Bantha Squadron - Date Edited: 9/20/06 9:02pm (1 edits total) Edited By: Krash
	CHAPTER ONE You never really can predict where the universe will take you. If there is one thing a fighter pilot understands, it is the simple accuracy of that very idea. Your whole life is based on the possibility that one moment you're here, and the next you'll be racing off somewhere else. The recruiters used to tell ya that as an Imperial aviator, "not only were you serving the Empire and your home world, but that this opportunity would take you to the far reaches of the galaxy, where you'd encounter all the adventure one life can handle." Man, did they burn that target. One of the places a pilot finds some comfort among the chaos is with their gear. It's all you take with you from the moment you join the service, from duty station to station, until you are retired one way or the other. In my current state, a few pieces of my gear were all that I had. My helmet and environmental gear was pretty much smashed up in the crash, considering it was all that kept me from discovering the after-life, I'm ok with the trade off. My gloves and comm unit must have been removed during my recovery, not like I could use them here. And here I wait in nothing but my standard issue black flight suit and boots. Judging from the scruff I feel across my face, it has been a couple days since I was in compliance with Imperial Grooming Standards. Not that anyone seemed to mind, as I had not seen or heard from anyone for hours or perhaps days on end. The room I've been sitting in could best be described as an over-sized cockpit: one door, very little light, a chair, and not much else to see or do but wait for something to happen. Perfect timing for the sounds of pressure locks to release so the door can open, and my only sign of life to enter the room. "On your feet!" commanded the young officer. Again, as with every other moment of the time spent in the company of the charming "Major Tough-Guy" my every move was apparently forbidden, and my reaction time to his barking was slower then a Gungan on neural relaxants. Evidently, my lack of standing at attention apparently provoked the little womp-rat to "help" me to my feet, with all the grace of a Gamorrrean line-dancer. Fortunately, the lack of furniture prevented me from bashing into anything that would make this any more pleasant. With all my attention focused on maintaining focus, and not blacking out again, I hardly noticed that my tango partner wasn't the only one to enter the room. "That is enough Lieutenant, you may leave us." Lieutenant? I'd over-estimated "Tough Guy" rise through the ranks. Like a good little drone, he walked over to the hatch and promptly exited the room. He left, but not without stopping to shot me a glare that seemed to suggest that my dance card wasn't empty just yet. I'd hate to think our relationship would not have the opportunity to grow beyond these wonderful moments of professionalism. However, there was a new target on my screen. My savior was a man of obvious military experience: human, something around 1.5-1.7 meters tall, with reddish blonde hair. His uniform was in perfect condition, but it was clear this man had seen his fair share of battle. Judging from his accent, he was as Corellian as a sand panther. While I was from Bespin, my family has some Corellian blood a couple generations back. Judging from sabacc face he had going wasn't about to reveal anything more about his personality. "How are you feeling?" he asked. My man of mystery seems to have a better bedside manner then his predecessor, that's encouraging. "Fine, shoulder is a bit sore and I have that Bacta-taste in my mouth." No harm in telling him the truth about my medical status. "What was your mission in the Garos system?" Honestly I didn't know what the overall objective of this mission was. As a pilot, you are not on that need-to-know basis about the political and military purpose for any assignment. A man say, "fly, kill the enemy" and my only response is supposed to be "affirmative!" I either achieve this goal or I die in the process... or I die after the fact if the objective is not reached. Either way, the end result is bad for me. "My name is Jon Crikan, Cadet 1st class, service number C-5562." Now he could have gotten that data off of my ident-badge, but that wasn?t the kind of answer he was wanting. Until I got some answers, I wasn't going to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. After a couple attempts at getting me to expand upon my previous answer, not only hadn't I annoyed this guy like every other officer I've had the pleasure of being written up by, but this one seemed to enjoy the chase. And they say I have difficulty making friends in this line of work. My new host reached over to the intercom, and the doors opened. "Tough Guy" was standing there. But rather then re-enter and continue to introduce me to gravity, he simply handed the man a chair and thermal-cup of what smelled like hot chocolate. He didn't say anything for a few minutes, instead taking the time to allow his beverage to cool a bit and then slowly sip his drink. "Alright, let's try this from a new perspective," he said. "Hello Jon, what brings you here?" Fair enough question, and I hope he can hold any stop to the refresher, because I could give him the unabridged version. And I could do it without giving away anything that would result in my permanent shore leave from this life. What is there to say? Growing up on Bespin's Cloud City, flight was a part of your life before most people can even walk. My family had lived on Bespin all my life: Dad worked maintenance for the city's repulsorlift generators, Mom taught Basic, Intergalactic Geography, and Non-Human Theology at Bespin Elementary School. Like everyone else, we had a nice little place in the middle levels of the station. However, unlike most of my friends, I got to experience the freedom of flight long beyond staring out the viewports of our home. Sometimes Dad would let me drive on the way to school, in his old Bespin Motors Storm III Cloud Car. It's a 2 seater, which could be flown from either of the craft's passenger pods. He would come up with some story about how he had to check a generator manifold or weather vane along the way, and let me take her out for a quick lap around the underside of the city. The more I got comfortable behind the controls, the faster and more maneuvers I would try. And every time Dad would yell over the intercom to "SLOW DOWN, you crazy velker...you trying to get us killed" meant that I was getting good at it! Now understand, he always had the ability to switch control over to his side of the craft, if I was that much out of control, but he never did...not once. There's nothing like the feeling of doing a lap at speeds over 1,000 KPM, and feeling like your going to drift right into the wall, but never do. I think he enjoyed the rush of weaving around the many towers and antennas that make up the underside of Bespin as much I did, or maybe he enjoyed watching me enjoy it. Who knew that sneaking off to chase the swirling gases of Bespin would eventually lead me to this place. But like I said, "you never really can predict where the universe will take you." -----signature----- Rebel Legion - Ohio captain Midwest Base http://phpnuke.midwestbase.com/ IN-5562 Ohio Garrison 501st
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Krash Title: RSA Emeritus Registered: Oct '00	Date Posted: 9/20/06 8:55pm Subject: RE: Black Bantha Squadron
	CHAPTER 2 “Do you like Zoneball?” I asked my host. The arbitrary nature of the question appeared to throw him off for a moment. Good enough to shake his target-lock for a moment, but as to be expected of someone of his ranking, the simple maneuvers don’t distract for long. “Not really, I watch a game here and there…why?” he replied. Now, you can tell everything about fighter pilots by the way they play Z-ball, as fans generally refer to the game. At most Z-ball arenas, you’ll see venders selling merchandise with phrases like: “Z-ball is LIFE…the rest is just details,” or “Give blood, play Z-ball!” The degree with which fans cherish their local team borders on hysteria. Oftentimes, the date of a match between rival systems will bring both worlds into an unofficial national holiday. Local taverns and sports themed restaurants will be packed with fans of teams like Corellia United or Kuat Crew. Pubs across the galaxy filled with people proudly wearing their team’s colors, cheering their boys on or questioning the officials’ biological lineage when he calls a penalty strike with less then ten seconds to go in a tie game. Back on Bespin, I played in the youth zoneball leagues and Dad was a coach for many years. It is a regular part of a child’s life and I played all the way through secondary school. Like the shirt says: “Z-ball is life…” Things are no different in the military; Z-ball is a part of our training. The basic premise behind Z-ball is simple: a team of six who’s objective is to score more points on the goal of their opponent then they allow. In general, the same goal pilots have: kill more of your enemy without getting yourself or your teammates killed. Each branch of the military has a team that plays in the Carida Zoneball League, and there is a great deal of pride that each division has in the record of their zoneball team. The team that represented all TIE pilots, during my time at Carida, was known as the “Black Banthas.” Anrev “Zig” Prowd was the kind of guy you expected to be working on freighters and starfighters rather then flying them. As a short, stocky, average guy, you would think he’d get crushed anytime he touched the ball. Well the truth is that was exactly what he used to his advantage, both in the arena and in a TIE fighter. When he doesn’t overpower defenders with his size and strength, he’d juke and fake you out to where you are left with broken ankles and a wounded pride. He always said his game was a cross between ZBL greats like Gerome “the transport” Bhetus and Werry Chanders. In the air, he fights with that strange mixture of strength and agility. Anrev played as a forward on our team and was one of my closest friends within the Banthas. On the other wing was where I played. And my style of attacking the goal without regard for the defense or even the goalie standing there earned me the nickname “Krash.” Now, you might be wondering if a pilot earning the nickname like that would have a negative overtone, I would argue that you only heard the guys on the other bench complaining about me. Like Anrev, my game was never about stealth. My dad used to say I drove towards the goal like “a Hawkbat outta Mustafar,” and that worked just fine for me. I grew up cheering for the Bespin Blue Wings and guys like Glen Zanderson. The Wings were just loaded with talent, during my childhood years, winning six Valorum Cups within a decade, which made them a dynasty. Zanderson was the guy I patterned my game after because he played the same position as I did. The thing I’ve learned in Z-ball that also works for TIE fighter pilots: speed kills! Amalia Debetta, our goalkeeper, known as “Sticks,” because of the large goalkeeper bat used to deflect scoring attempts. Fresh out of secondary school, she was a youngest of the Banthas, and what she lacked in maturity she makes up for with intensity. Keepers are known to be a strange lot; you kind of have to be to volunteer as a human deflector shield. And to make matters worse, on the front of her protective mask, she painted a huge face of a grinning Nexu cat. Anybody lurking near her goal would feel like a Nexu just slashed them up; you’ve almost want to check to see if your uniform wasn’t shredded after you passed by. As a pilot, her lack of experience was compensated for by that insanity; enough to stay alive and get the job done which is all that really matters. Hobbie Mikilzun, known as “Chase”, was our center/midfield position. His job is to angle the opponent’s offense towards either flank, where we’d be waiting to pounce. He was a bit of a perfectionist, which is fine, because he seldom makes mistakes on the field. In combat, he is all about precision and wears opponents down. And once that happens, well local authorities regret to inform you that your relative was killed, because Chase is just that forkin’ good. Will Crais could be a poster boy for Imperial recruitment. “Raptor,” as we knew him, was from one of the finest families on Coruscant; which makes you wonder how he ended up with us. You kinda got the feeling Raptor was only in the military as a stepping-stone to bigger and better things. Might explain why he carried himself, as if he were already a Grand Admiral, instead of a cadet like the rest of us. We used to tell him he was going to replace that kid Garik Loran as the pretty boy of holodramas, and run off with Wynssa Starflare, or something like that. Of course, Chase would then remind him that IF that were to happen, he’d be all over her and run off with her faster then you could say “Sithspit!” As a defender, his job was to be the one pouncing on the poor fools Chase draws in, and let me tell you he was built for the job…in fact, I think he enjoyed it too much. And then there was Domi Slayke, also known as “Scrappy,” was our other defender. He was another one of those guys who loved to fight, which is why he was in the military. On the field, he paired up with Raptor to defend Sticks’ goal and anything that survived the two of them, wasn’t much for giving her a challenge. The guy liked to tell stories of his uncle, who was someone of significance during the Clone Wars. Good guy, good stories, good pilot. There were more people then that in my graduating class from flight school, and basic training at Carida. However, the Banthas were the people I lived, worked, and played with. Now that we were assigned to our training squadron, it was time to get in the air. -----signature----- Rebel Legion - Ohio captain Midwest Base http://phpnuke.midwestbase.com/ IN-5562 Ohio Garrison 501st
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Krash Title: RSA Emeritus Registered: Oct '00	Date Posted: 9/20/06 8:56pm Subject: RE: Black Bantha Squadron
	Chapter 3 My host began to get noticeably restless, standing up and pacing around the room as if searching for something. “And what does this have to do with your most recent mission?” His demeanor had shifted from accommodating and friendly to that of slightly annoyed, bordering on fed up. While I was enjoying the discussion of the many subtle nuances in the game of zoneball, my host was clearly not as interested as I was. Normally, a pilot doesn’t have the fainted clue about the galactic and sometimes philosophical reasons why we are in any particular action: an alarm goes off, you rush to your stations, get a sit-rep from your Commander Air Group or CAG (typically in route) and blast anything that doesn’t fly a Sienar Fleet Systems product. I know a few Gungans who can accomplish that! However, in light of recent events, I do have a unique perspective on this mission. That information is probably the one reason I am still among the living. Hope he’s ready for a long story. “That’s going to take some explaining.” I began with a bit of a smirk, “Good thing neither of us are going anywhere for a while.” As I mentioned earlier, the job requirements of a starfighter pilot is fairly simple: fly fast, shoot first, don’t get killed, repeat steps 1-3. Ironically, that is not how things work during a cadet’s training at Carida. After you endure the grueling indoctrination process: head shaved, uniforms distributed, and several charming drill instructors constantly informing you just where his Imperial issue boot is about to be permanently lodged, you actually begin to learn how to fly. By “fly”, I mean that you learn every possible detail about the Sienar Fleet Systems TIE/LN Space Superiority Starfighter without ever actually getting to look at one. For instance, did you know that the Sienar Fleet Systems (or SFS as we refer to it as) P-s4 Twin Ion Engines on a TIE fighter feed directly into the weapons system? The theory behind that is that pilots can relegate between speed and the intensity of their attacks. One of the reasons TIEs have been know to come racing in, like a hawkbat outta Mustafar, is that the pilot diverted the amount of energy the weapons system used to replenish the SFS Laser Cannons and sent it all into the engines. The weapons system has a small generator, but even without firing a single shot, that power bleeds down to nothing in minutes. Pilots have to budget and constantly adapt their power distribution to achieve the maximum performance, depending on the needs of the mission. By the end of academy part of training, you are so swamped with technical facts, theoretical principles of combat, and simulations that you are willing to allow that drill instructor to do the very thing he always promises to do with his boot, if only to get into orbit. Which is somewhat ironic, given the next phase of a cadet’s training. Contrary to popular opinion, flight school does not start in atmosphere. Whoever developed the Imperial Flight Training program must have felt that “in space, no one can hear you fork up.” While incredibly fast and maneuverable, the TIE can be described as too responsive; leaving many novice pilots to have ended their term of service in the worst possible manner. Cadets don’t practice flight maneuvers in atmosphere until midway through their training, mainly to master the mechanics of the SFS TIE starfighter and perfect their technique enough to be able to adapt to a variety of planetary environments. Cadets are shuttled into orbit, where the ISD Scorpion is often stationed in high orbit. Once there, you report to the campaign desk where some rich kid has the difficult task of informing you of your assignment. We won’t get into the fact that a large plasma screen hanging on the back of the wall, displays both where you are in terms of the entire Empire and a more detailed map of the system you are in…apparently, we still need to be informed by “the future CEO” that we’re still in the Caridan system. “Report to briefing room 7” is about all you get from the future head of some multi-planet conglomerate company, which leave you wondering if gravity is in fact the only thing holding the universe together. As you ponder that bit of wisdom, you move into your designated briefing room where a Flight Officer and you CAG are waiting to go over the situation report (or Sit-Rep) with an even bigger/detailed map of the mission. The area is displayed in two-dimensional graphical map, with the various “friendly” capital, starfighter, and support vehicles displayed in red. Known enemies, such as openly declared Rebel craft are green. Unknown and possibly hostile craft are shown in blue and or purple, depending on their classification and potential threat level. Because, if you cannot tell the difference between a possible Rebel starfighter and a space tug, both the Empire and I would appreciate it if you simply open the hatch of your command pod, unlock the environmental seals of your flight-suit, and let the vaccum of space do us all a favor. All warheads show up as yellow, and all other objects are white. This is the same way targets will appear on your Combat Multiview Display (CMD). Your CAG goes over the mission objectives, notes any secondary objectives and possible hostiles (remember, not including the space tug) in the area before we move on to the pilot ready room. The pilot ready room is about as close to home as you will ever get, while in the service of the Empire. Just a series of lockers and benches, this is the last place a squadron can be together as a unit; and the only place we are not surrounded by other branches of the military. Under combat conditions, pilots only have a few precious seconds in the ready room, as they need to be ready to launch on a moment’s notice. At first, cadets have it easy with the emphasis on doing everything perfect. In time, cadets are drilled on the speed and accuracy of their ability to be combat ready. Flight-suits need to be properly sealed; atmosphere converters (what we refer to as the “chestbox”) are connected. This is very important because the chestbox is the only thing that allows you to breath; screw that up and you won’t make it out from your Star Destroyer’s shadow. Once your helmet is sealed and air is flowing from your chestbox, you make a run for the flight deck. If the ready room is home, the flight deck is the office. Immediately, you are on a walkway with ladders to every TIE fighter within your Command Wing. Since TIE starfighters (at least any models I know of) do not have landing gear, they have to be stored in a hanging position. All craft are stored in individual compartments, grouped by squadron, each supported by a three-pronged docking claw. The top pair braces either side of the command pod, while the third supports the command pod from underneath. Once you’ve strapped into the high gee shock couch, engaged the repulsorlift anti-grav field, place your feet in the foot yokes, and take hold of the hand-control yoke, if the adrenaline of this hasn’t worn off…be prepared for what pilots refer to as “the tubrolift to hell”…LAUNCH! -----signature----- Rebel Legion - Ohio captain Midwest Base http://phpnuke.midwestbase.com/ IN-5562 Ohio Garrison 501st
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Krash Title: RSA Emeritus Registered: Oct '00	Date Posted: 9/20/06 8:56pm Subject: RE: Black Bantha Squadron
	CHAPTER 4: If being launched into the vastness of space were the most calming experience ever, a game of Zoneball would have to be one of the most chaotic. The reason Imperial recruits play as part of their training is to both condition the body as well as the mind for the intensity of galactic warfare. Or at least, that’s what the instructors told you…we just enjoyed the chance to beat the hell out of guys from other branches of the service. You see, “The Black Banthas”…that’s my squad, weren’t meant to be in the inter-academy league. It wasn’t until that several members of the official TIE pilot team were found to be part of a recently discovered Rebel cell that I even got a chance to play in the Carida league. Your average Z-ball arena is a 45 meters long, six-sided, playing surface. Each side of the arena is equal length, and since the players are meant to think in three dimensions. The gravity settings are slightly lower then in normal human atmospheres, which along with repulsor boots, give players the ability to defy normal physics and move more like a TIE fighter would in space. You wear protective headgear, a microdex jumpsuit, some knee and elbow padding, but that’s about it. Galaxies different then the bulky gear you wear as a TIE pilot, but then you feel even less shielded then when you’re in a TIE. They say, “you never forget your first time.” In the case of Z-ball, probably because you’ll have impact-related trauma you experience until your dying breathe. My first game with the Banthas was no exception. “Will you get over on the frelling wing Crikan?” Chase shouted. It wasn’t the first time in this match that our midfielder made that suggestion to me. I would have kept track of how often, but after the first couple dozen hits to the head from my counterpart from 2nd armor division…I just wanted someone to switch off the turbolaser in my head. Someone needed to tell that guy he did not have to bring his AT-ST walker with him to the game, much less walk over me with it. “Make one pass that doesn’t land it and me in the Bacta tank and we’ll see” I replied. “Oh, can it…the both of you!" barked Sticks, “If either of ya would get through that mess of gear-heads, we wouldn’t be down by one for the last period and a half.” “What the frell do you want me to do?” I asked. “How about we draw these mud-walkers over to my wing, and outflank and out-gun them.” Leave it to Anrev, our only fourth year and lone remaining member of the original TIE pilot team, to come up with a plan that fit both the moment and our abilities. He came up with the name for both our Z-ball team and training squadron, because each of us had that kind of mean streak in our game that made us the “Black Banthas” of the academy... if not our own locker-room. “Chase, rather then always going to your right, rollout to your left and fake a handoff to me. Take your time and draw the defenders to you.” “What, are you mental?” argued Chase, “why should I join Crikan in the morgue?” “Cause, you nerf-herding moron…that’ll give Raptor and Scrappy time to smack them in the mouth for a change.” Anrev explained, “which will give you all the time in the universe to make a clean pass to Krash so he can fire one past that sleeping keeper of theirs.” “Krash?” I asked, “what kinda a name is that for a TIE pilot?” “One that fits your mission profile today,” Anrev jabbed, “Now when Chase passes you the ball…you either put it in the goal, or through that keeper’s Sith-Spittin’ skull!” With the timeout over, and all of us feeling the love, we made our way to the starting circle. It was here that each team’s midfielder would battle for possession of the ball, and start the play in and around the arena. We went with our standard five-wing approach, one player on five of the six angles of the arena with Sticks guarding our goal at the southern end of the field. The official sends the ball up, up being a term relative to the position we all enter the arena in, and Chase comes up with it. I ran a standard slant route, sprinting along my line then altering course for the opposing goal to my left. From a quick glance, it looked like Anrev’s diversion worked. Chase had two attackers following his approach to Anrev, expecting a shovel pass and an easy kill for them. Next thing you know, there are Raptor and Scrappy delivering a devastating block that dropped both guys to the floor. Chase reverses his course and fires a pass upward and across to my position. With the defenders down, I was alone with their keeper and room to spare. Holding the ball in my right arm, I pump fake a throw to get him to overcompensate, he bites at the move and I switch hands to my throwing arm. With full intent of following Anrev’s orders, I fire a shot that beats the keeper to the high left side and the red light goes off! “Black Bantha goal, his first of the season, scored by number 5562…Jon Crikan,” is announced over the public address system. With only seconds left in the final period, walking away with a tie may not seem like much, but when you have been thrown together only hours before…a non-loss sounds just as good as a win. “Krash, nice shot man!” cried Anrev. “I was trying for the skull!” I replied with a smirk. -----signature----- Rebel Legion - Ohio captain Midwest Base http://phpnuke.midwestbase.com/ IN-5562 Ohio Garrison 501st
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Krash Title: RSA Emeritus Registered: Oct '00	Date Posted: 9/20/06 8:57pm Subject: RE: Black Bantha Squadron - Date Edited: 9/20/06 11:27pm (1 edits total) Edited By: Krash
	CHAPTER 5: “Krash, your call-sign is Krash?” asked my host. As if I hadn’t flown through this kind of flak in the past, the best I could muster was a shrug of my shoulders and a smirk on my face. “Well, it’s not like today’s events have lowered expectations any more then they already are…have they?” I replied. “So, what does all this have to do with Garos system?” Our CAG, Commander Beltayn, was the kind of guy who could make a Trandosian run screaming for its mama. He was the best pilot onboard the Scorpion, and probably the most ruthless in his job. Rumor has it he was once stationed with Omega Wing, and those guys are legendary among fighter pilots. As the story goes, he was re-assigned to Scorpion as a flight instructor after Baron Fel got sent to the 181st. Rumor has it, Fel got blame for a bunch of cadets turning Rebel, and they wanted to ensure that anyone under Commander Beltayn’s command didn’t make a similar career (and possibly life) ending choice. For cadets, if you survived being in the grip of “Ironhand” (his call-sign) you were almost certain to make it through your tour of duty as a Imperial TIE pilot. Basically, cause if he didn’t kill you…nothing could. It’s unclear whether it was the ship’s CO or Ironhand himself that enjoyed using cadets for everyday flight operations: standard patrols, probing asteroid belts for suspected enemy craft, and the sort. What was clear is that someone liked sending us into harm’s way as a training exercise. One story in particular sums up the way Ironhand would “educate” us in the life and death world of space combat. It was right after our first Z-ball match, Raptor starts shooting off his mouth about how he crushed those guys from 2nd Armor. “I tell ya, they should have had a holo-camera on me that game.” Brags Raptor. “One clip of that hit I delivered, and this pretty face will be all over GSPN for years to come.” Chase raised an eyebrow. “Right, they’ll show it in the segment right along with the other podracer wrecks!” “Oh,” said Raptor, “like you were anything to talk about today?” The rest of us were changing out of our game clothes and back into our standard issue jumpsuits. Black as the galaxy we fly in, and yet much more tight fitting then our bulky flightsuits. Despite how negative all this chatter may sound, we got along together very well. It was not all that uncommon for friendly ribbing and jabs to fly around a z-ball locker room, just like you would hear in the TIE pilot ready room. However, Chase and Raptor took their verbal sparing matches to the level where sometimes you had to remind them that we are all on the same side. Anrev found a way to break the tension. “Those gear-heads were so slow, if you didn’t target lock onto one of them sooner or later…they’d send you into heavy artillery where you need to swat at even a mynock with a Death Star!” “Oh yeah?” Raptor shouted. “If that’s so, let’s settle this right now. Let’s go back onto the arena and play a lil one-on-one z-ball!” You could tell his pride had taken a critical hit, cause now he was starting to rant. “Better yet, let’s take this outside and I’ll light up anyone who wants to go run a simulation combat scenario against me.” It was at this moment that Commander Beltayn walked into the room. None of us ever found out why he decided to pay a visit to the Banthas’ locker-room. Once he heard Raptor promise that he could take down our CAG in under 3 minutes, his original motive seemed to fade away as quickly as our good mood. At first, Ironhand didn’t say or do anything to stop Raptor; he just stood there and let Raptor’s mouth keep digging a deeper hole for him to fall in. While Raptor’s mouth kept writing his own obituary, some of us tried gesturing for him to shut the fork up while we all found cover from the blast that was sure to come. Sticks and Anrev had slowly crept back into their individual changing stalls. Scrappy just lowered his head and tried avoiding eye contact with his wingman’s soon to be killer. Chase was trying his best not to bust out laughing, waiting to see Raptor flame out in a blaze of glory. I tried making a kill gesture across my throat, until one look from Ironhand towards me made that signal of assistance morph into rubbing “that darn shoulder that was bothering me.” “Is that so CADET Crais?” boomed a voice from behind Raptor. “In that case, why don’t you meet me in hanger 7 and we shall test that theory.” The look on Raptor’s face went from warm to as white as a TK’s helmet. Any sense of bravado, or for that matter manhood, that resided in Raptor’s ego was now just as dead as anything else who crossed lasers with Beltayn in a fight. Raptor stood there, frozen as a block of carbonite in the middle of a Hoth winter waiting to have his soul ripped out or something. The rest of us froze in place, for fear of being mistaken for a secondary target. “Standard ready alert response time is 3 minutes, CADET Crais…you will be dressed and ready to fly within the next 2 minutes.” Beltayn continued, “Do you understand?” “SIR, yes SIR!” shouted Raptor. Raptor turned around and sprinted out the door, followed by Beltayn at a much slower pace. Once they were gone, and the oxygen levels in the room returned to normal, the rest of us looked at each other. “Briefing Room?” asked Sticks. “Yeah, think we have time to pop a bag of kettle corn?” added Chase with a grin. “This is gonna be priceless.” -----signature----- Rebel Legion - Ohio captain Midwest Base http://phpnuke.midwestbase.com/ IN-5562 Ohio Garrison 501st
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Krash Title: RSA Emeritus Registered: Oct '00	Date Posted: 9/20/06 8:58pm Subject: RE: Black Bantha Squadron - Date Edited: 9/20/06 9:04pm (1 edits total) Edited By: Krash
	CHAPTER SIX: Now while it’s true that the “penalty shot” is the most exciting play in Z-ball, in fact the entire universe of sports, the training dogfight between two starfighters is probably a close second. Most of a cadet’s life is spent in simulation after simulation, escort mission for freighters that don’t exist, attack runs on imaginary targets. They are meant as an opportunity to put all that technical jargon and combat tactics theory into hands on practice. It was one thing to spend hours “in the black” flying around in formation with your fellow cadets, it was something entirely different to engage with your fellow pilot in one-on-one combat. Especially when your opponent is a superior officer with a reputation that makes Rancors cringe. “Twenty Imperial Credits says Raptor doesn’t last 2 minutes.” Chase asked to nobody in particular. “Thirty says, he doesn’t even get a shot off before Ironhand vapes him.” An Imperial cadet doesn’t get paid much, so the chance to either double or lose a week’s wages was a tempting offer. You could see everyone doing the mental math of what they had saved up and when the next credit distribution day was scheduled. After a couple moments of sophomoric addition and subtraction, you could smell the oil burning in the gears of some minds. “I’ll take some of that,” Anrev added. “I say Will gets in at least one or two shots, not promising hits, before he gets scorched.” Once the initial bid was placed, everyone else started making small wagers on the outcome. Pretty soon we needed holonet game show host Rob Parker to keep track of the “actual retail price of Will opening his big mouth” cause all the odds were pointing to a bloodbath in favor of Beltayn, it was just a matter of how long before Raptor bites the spacedust. “Where the fork is the kettle corn Chase?” inquired Sticks. “You said you were going to pop up a couple bags of kettle corn for us to snack on.” “Well, I figured Raptor was going to get vaped in less time then it took to pop a bag, and I didn’t want to miss anything.” The collective groan from the Banthas, and even some other cadet flight groups who overheard the exchange that started it all, bordered on the makings of a ship mutiny. Fortunately for Chase, Anrev walked into the briefing room with a pair of large bowls of kettle corn and a couple of guys from the launch crew that this marked the second time today that Chase got his tail saved by Anrev. “Ask and the Empire’s finest shall provide!” shouted Anrev. “We figured now would be a good time to slip away, before we had to mop up the mess in that kid’s cockpit afterwards.” Said the taller of the two crewmen. They were buddies of Anrev, always the techie at heart, who he apparently invited into what normally would be a restricted area for non-Imperial aviators. If there was one thing the Imperial flight training school taught you was that as an Imperial Aviator, you were better then the rest of the Imperial Navy (except of higher ranking officers of course). Of course, being a cadet meant you were the lowest of the elite, and even the lesser classifications within the Imperial Navy looked at you like you just wrestled a dianoga in it’s own muck. And while most just accepting being lower the dianoga muck, Anrev had always taught Banthas to never turn down a “friendly” when you found one. “Well, now we’re talking,” Sticks said as she grabbed a bowl just as soon as she gave Chase an elbow to the midsection. “They’re launching.” Since simulated dogfights in space use actual Imperial starfighters, the weapons have to be recalibrated so that the L-s1 laser cannons on your standard TIE fighter wont do any actual damage. In addition, the targeting computer is set to register any hits and calculate the damage that would have occurred in a real combat situation. Glance a hit on the solar array, you’ll stay online but your steering may become more sluggish. Take a direct hit to the command pod…goodbye, but live to fight another day. Since these type of training exercises had a wide open area, they tend to be placed too far away from the Star Destroyer baseship to be seen from any observation deck, so all non-participants watched from a briefing room on a three dimensional projector. By now, Raptor and Beltayn had time to suit-up, choose the model of starfighter they wanted to use. Typically, both pilots would select a standard TIE/Ln or sometimes raise the stakes by using some of the newer TIE Interceptor class starfighters. “You have GOT to be kidding me!” exclaimed Anrev. “What?” asked Sticks, who had never witnessed an actual space-training dogfight so far. Both ships were just coming into range of the holoprojector’s cameras. Chase finished Anrev’s comment on the situation. “Beltayn went with a TIE Bomber, and Chase is flying just a TIE/Ln, that’s a classic mismatch” “Or Ironhand is so confident in the outcome that he picked a slower craft to make a point.” I said. Under normal circumstances, nobody in their right mind would dogfight in a TIE Bomber. While they both have a pair of SFS P-s4 ion engines, the TIE Bomber has to lug around the additional portside pod, which houses all the nifty ship-to-ship and ground ordinates a bomber would use. This makes them slower in terms of speed and maneuverability then a TIE/Ln, which would benefit Raptor if these had been normal conditions. “Are you prepared Cadet Crais?” asked Ironhand over the flight group open channel. After a brief pause Raptor replied, “Ah, um…affirmative sir.” “Ok boy sand girls, start the timer….” Chase waited for the proper moment, “NOW!” Both ships launched from the main flight deck and head in the direction away from the ship they were instructed to by the flight officer on the bridge. Once both starfighters are in the assigned engagement zone, they break formation and head in opposite directions. Once they reach, what in Z-ball terms would be opposing goal lines, they turn about and engage. Now, even a first time nugget knows better then go head t head in a TIE fighter; having no shields makes that approach suicide at best. Raptor breaks first, going into a power climb (based on our relative position in space) above Beltayn’s line of fire. He’s pushing the TIE/Ln’s speed advantage to try and get in behind and score a quick kill shot, simple strategy. Meanwhile, Ironhand didn’t seem alarmed by the developing attack. He kept his TIE Bomber in a relatively level (again from our perspective) flight path. He didn’t move, didn’t go evasive, if I didn’t know any better I’d swear Raptor switched his flightsuit’s oxygen supply with a sedative from the infirmary. By now, Raptor had snuck in behind Beltayn’s line of sight and was moving into prime firing position. Ironhand kept on flying as if he was a float in the Naboo Rememberance Day Parade; heck I swear you could see him waving to the imaginary crowds lined up celebrating the liberation from the old Trade Federation. “What the fork is he doing?” asked Chase, “He’s gonna get vaped by a cadet, in under two minutes?” Anrev replied, “Gotta a trap of some kind, or maybe he took a bet with one of the guys you did and wants to mess up your odds?” Raptor started to make his move in behind Ironhand. Raptor slowly banks in from the right side of Ironhand, on an angle for a perfect kill shot. This had to be a joke, there’s no way Raptor was good enough to vape the infamous Ironhand Beltayn; it just doesn’t happen. He closed the distance on Ironhand and right at the moment where each one of us had to be mentally pulling the trigger had we been stupid enough to be in this situation, something happened that left the entire room in disbelief. Ironhand rolls to his left and immediately swings around to bring the ship around to go head-to-head with Raptor’s TIE. Raptor fired off a couple blasts, in a vain attempt to catch Beltayn in mid-turn. It was obvious that Raptor was just as spooked as the rest of us by the choice to make the number one mistake that got drilled into us in Combat 101. “NEVER go head-to-head in a craft with no shields,” if I had a credit for every time I heard that saying I would have taken Chase up on his bet. At this point, everyone in the room felt like a first year nugget with fresh off the transport. At this point, both starfighters closed the gap twice as fast, since neither was clearly in pursuit or retreat. We all figured Beltayn didn’t have the speed to go for a hit and run tactic, and Raptor was closing in now twice as fast. When all of the sudden, it wasn’t Beltayn’s laser cannons that opened up but rather a concussion missile launched from the portside weapons pod. “Holy forkin, son-of-a…” The verbal shock of entire ready room up on their feet in disbelief drowned out the rest of Chase’s colorful commentary on the situation. Thankfully, the concussion missile Ironhand fired was never armed, essentially making it a rocket propelled Z-ball. However, even a rocket Z-ball can do serious damage to a starfighter. Raptor seemed as nerf-in headlights stunned as the rest of us; only he’s the nerf in headlights who’d better make a move. The missile impacted on Raptor’s starboard side, ripping through the entire wing attachment pylon. The holographic shape of Raptor’s TIE/Ln shuddered and faded out, indicating a simulated kill. None of us saw any indication that Raptor had ejected; thankfully his ship hadn’t detonated after the impact with the missile. “Scorpion Control, this is Delta-One.” Ironhand said over the open channel, “Inform rescue and retrieval shuttle that Delta-Two is down and pilot is EV, need immediate retrieval. Have maintenance crews ready to receive damaged starfighter once it’s tractored in.” “Understood Delta-One, all units will be advised” replied the bridge officer. The entire room stood in utter silence. Ironhand had not only ripped up Raptor’s TIE/Ln with one shot, and as we all looked up to the running time that had stopped the moment Raptor’s signal terminated…we learned he had don it in two minutes and one second. “Yes!” cried Anrev, who help his palms out to one of his crewman friends, the other crewman also extended the open hand of victory. Anrev collected his winnings and turned to Chase. “And to think, I only had to cut the Commander in for five percent.” Anrev collected his winning from Chase and headed back out the door. Anrev turned around and the rest of us were left to munch on our kernel corn and wonder. -----signature----- Rebel Legion - Ohio captain Midwest Base http://phpnuke.midwestbase.com/ IN-5562 Ohio Garrison 501st
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