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Dawn Patrol
01/16/12(Mon)20:25 No.17565218>>17565090
Daytime attacks usually consist of those fucking steam-sleds (or whatever flavor-of-the-week the little green men pick,) dropping in from high orbit, right onto population centers like London. A pilot tooling about at 30,000 feet has a decent chance of scoring a kill on one, if he spots it early enough to match speeds in a dive.
Coast patrol, however, is -
"-cleaning up the Witches sloppy seconds," Sean bitches, "if we're incredibly lucky."
"What, you want to get into a real fight in this clunker?" Ian marvels from the back-seat. "More power to the girls, I say."
Your crew didn't get their asses kicked last night, so they're a bit more talkative then you. An hour later, you're feeling a little more awake, and you've gained about 20,000 feet of altitude by the time you reach the cliffs of Kent.
"The channel sure is pretty in the morning," Ian says as you wheel North for the first leg of your patrol. Sean announces his intention to get some sleep, and leans back - Ian and you both have 20/10 vision, and with the morning fog burned away by the rising sun, there's little call for the radar.
"There's Sparkle City," you say, nodding at the little spit of an island off your nose, where the 501st Witches squadron is based.
"It's got a proper name, you know," Ian scolds you. "That's one of the most ancient and fabled castles in all of England, you lout."
You lean forward in your seat, peering intently at something a little nearer. It looks like gnats at twenty paces on a hot summer day - just the hint of a cloud of tiny things, darting about swiftly. "You see that?"
"I do," Ian says. |
