Fitzsquire walked slowly around his bomber. Bright white numbers on its tail designated it as 1-1313.

He sighed as he looked at the numerous spot welds and repairs that had been hastily applied to fix the damage it had suffered. The Nemesis Banshee was an in-system variant of the Nemesis. The original Nemesis was a dedicated strike fighter, intended to conduct high-speed, low-level attacks on ground targets, its primary mission to engage with, and destroy, armoured vehicle formations and high-value strategic assets such as munitions dumps.

The firepower that it carried exceeded that of nearly every other ECAF air craft of its size. The Nemesis Pulse Cannon slung under the hull only served to increase its fearsome reputation. Legend had it that the power source for the fearsome weapon could power a house for a century. He neither knew, nor cared, it that was true.

Not like this is bloody real life anyway, he thought bitterly. In some ways, he thought that this way of fighting wars was crueller than before, at least we didn’t have to die time and time again.

He looked at how the Banshee variant had been adapted. There was greater armour on the nose and wings and top of the fuselage, vital considering that the enemy would be shooting at angles that would strike those parts more than the lower fuselage. The gunner's heavy machine gun had been replaced with a multi-pulser, looking at the battery he could see it was good for at least four hundred shots, more than enough for them to get in and out on a mission.

Dogfighting was the escort's role, not theirs. He ran his hands over one of the six bombs slung under the wings, a mix of high-explosive and napalm. Delivered together they would devastate the enemy. Rounding off the armament were two wing-mounted multiple missile launchers. Each one held twenty four, 70mm rockets. Looking at the load in the pod nearest to him he let out a low whistle.

The payload was a mix of flechette, high explosive, phosphorous and multi-purpose submunitions. Fired in a ripple effect, these missiles were designed to literally shred enemy infantry where they stood. The flechette missiles alone held over two thousand two hundred flechettes each. Reaching the tail he grasped the rudder and waggled it.

"There's too much give. Tighten it up," he said to the man with him.

Ground Sergeant Oline looked up from his checklist. "It's as tight as it's going to be. We don't have any spare cable. You'll have to adjust for it."

Fitzsquire scrubbed at his face. The whole inspection so far had consisted of him pointing out faults and Oline basically replying with "tough".

"Fine, moving on." He pointed wordlessly at a weld that was too thin. Oline smiled, marked his sheet and shook his head.

"No weld until supplies catch up with us. One week at least. Apparently those playing in the commander game have neglected to supply a lot of the units correctly. Us included."

Half-an-hour later they had finished their inspection. Not one thing he had pointed could, or would be fixed.

"This isn't bloody good enough Oline! How the hell can I fly this crate through enemy fire and keep her and my gunner ..." His voice trailed off as he realised that he'd forgotten the man's name.

"Leopold, Flight-Trooper Leopold. Don't ever forget his name again,” Fitzsquire staggered as Oline pushed him violently against the jet, "my job is to keep you scum suckers in the air so that you can kill the enemy. My job is not to act as your lackey, nor remind you of people's names."

Oline shoved him again, his head ringing painfully off the fuselage. Rubbing his head, Fitzsquire bit back his complaint at the unfairness of it all as he watched Oline stalk off.

#

"Close up you lazy fuckers! Fitz, I want you ten metres to my four, no more no less. Schwarz, I want the same for you on my seven." Kingsley had been given eighteen hours to convert his flight to dive bombers.

He was determined to do it in twelve, earn a Gold Trainers’ Wing and use the remaining time to make them the best that they could be. They might be scum, but they were his scum, no matter how much he hated to admit it.

Ever since his parents had been killed when he was three, he and his brother had been raised by their uncle, a former ECAF NCO, to believe in the duty of non-commissioned and commissioned officers to ensure that they looked after the well-being of their soldiers, using them to maximum effect, developing them into the best soldiers they could be.

It didn't mean that you let them get away for the slightest ill-discipline, "Schwarz! Close up before I massage your jewels again, right fucking now!"

Ever since what everyone had started to refer to as the 'clutch', Schwarz had lost a lot of his bluster and arrogance. He still needed the odd gentle reminder now and then however. Twisting to look over his shoulder he saw that Schwarz had closed up, "There now, wasn't too hard. Target coming up in two mikes. Climb to fifteen thousand."