Robotech Macross

JAG off
Saturday, May 16th, 2009

He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours when he heard the annoying ringtone. His arm flailed around randomly on the nightstand in an attempt to silence the alarm, and he heard items clattering to the floor. It seemed to do the trick, as the phone went silent. He pulled the blankets over his head and rolled over. He could feel long strands of hair tickling his face and he knew she was still there. He wrapped his arm around her torso and spooned closer. He inhaled her perfume and started drifting back to sleep.

The annoying ringtone.

“Gaarrrggh!” He uncoiled himself and rolled over. He cracked an eye open to look for the telltale light from the phone’s touchscreen, and almost fell out of bed reaching for it. He succeeded in grabbing it without succumbing to gravity, and yelled into the phone.

“Take me off your goddamn calling list! You have the wrong number! The check is in the mail!”

“Geez, Aaron – it’s Major Quattrochi. Get your ass out of bed. We have a situation, and your caseload is light. I’ll see you in twenty.” The line went dead.

“Ah fuck…”

He fell back onto the bed.

“Just go”, she said. “I was just going to run errands anyway, and you hate that. See you this evening.”

Captain Aaron Samuel, JAG, somehow knew this wasn’t just another drunk driver he’d have to defend.

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We interrupt this broadcast...
Friday, May 15th, 2009

“…and as you can see, the congestion problems that existed weeks ago are now non-existent. The Adler Augen, or Eagle Eyes, traffic control system from Adler system has worked wonders on Macross’ traffic, especially around the…excuse me one moment…”

The attractive reporter’s eyes light up, as she yells something to the pilot. The helo makes a hard bank and the cameraman struggles to maintain a hold on the pretty blonde’s face. Her voice comes back on, and she is struggling to hide her European accent, “Goot eefning. If you are just joining us, vee haf received word that a military vehicle has crash landed not too far from here. Vee should be giving you footage in a few minutes.”

reporter.jpg

The TV cuts to a middle aged anchorman who gives very little additional information, as he and an attractive female co-anchor exchange banter and feigned concern before cutting back to the young reporter.

The graphics below her face identify her as Sabine Leitner, a reporter with Deutsche Welle. She yells over the helo, “Hello, we are here at the scene of a downed military aircraft. We apologize for the footage, but we are unable to get much closer because of a no-fly zone and the circling jets flying overhead. We have been told the aircraft was piloted by a student assigned to a training squadron, but we do not yet know his identity.”

The footage cycles between IR and night vision, but the distance and motion of the news helicopter make identification difficult. Sabine makes a few more comments, but essentially repeats the story while the voices of the news anchors speculate on what may have happened. After about 30 more minutes, the helicopter has to return to the mainland to refuel.

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RDF Veritech Training, Class 055, Week 1
Friday, May 15th, 2009

All warning lights stop flashing, threat warning systems go blank, alarms quiet, and disabled systems come back online. The training squadron breathes a collective sigh of relief, and starts to chatter amongst themselves about who did what to whom. The XO’s voice booms over the radio, “Okay lads, exercise over. For the most part, you guys did okay, but suffered heavy losses because of inaction in the first few seconds. We’ll give you a full debrief on Monday once we’ve had time to analyze everything. Park your planes, and enjoy the weekend!”

The squadron cheers, and goes back to trading smack talk with each other. The adrenaline takes awhile to wear off, as evidenced by more than a few missed landings by various members of the crew. Eventually everyone parks, hits the showers, and starts to head out for an evening of well-deserved celebration. A SFC pokes his head in the showers and yells, “FLIGHT LEADERS! REPORT TO THE XO!”

The order is repeated amongst the squadron until the flight leads respond in unison, “Aye, Aye! Flight leaders reporting to the XO!”

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RDF Veritech Training, Class 055, Week 1
Friday, May 8th - Friday, May 15th 2009

Prometheus.jpg

PVT Grant Chase walked up the gangplank to his new home. He had seen photos, but nothing really prepared him for the sheer size of the supercarrier. The CVS-101 Prometheus was a new addition to the fledgling Robotech Defense Force, and he would be one of the first to serve aboard her, even if it was in a training capacity. Although class was not to start until Monday, he had taken the advice of an NCO from the RDF Academy to always arrive a few days early, if possible.

Of course, the Prometheus paled in comparison to the monolithic shape of the enormous SDF-1 behind him. He paused on the ramp to turn and take a look at the impressive structure, and couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement. He let out a whistle of appreciation, and could feel the hairs on his forearms sticking up despite the heat and humidity of the tropical island weather.

He watched from afar for a few minutes, and glanced up as he heard the sound of aircraft above him. The sound was familiar, but also somehow different. He swept the sky for a sign of the jets, but could only make out dark shapes as the setting sun silhouetted them. Fast. They were extremely fast. He waited to see if they would make a return pass, but after a few moments concluded that they were probably on a patrol and wouldn’t return for awhile. He readjusted his bag and headed back up the ramp.

He felt a rush of processed and recycled air as he finally entered the ship. Two armed Marine NCOs were making small talk at a reception desk. The corporal who was seated accepted his ID and checked him in using a touchscreen attached to the desk. He handed back the credentials, and then gave a somewhat confusing set of directions to the flight quarters. The puzzled look on Chase’s face caused the sergeant to chuckle and offer to show him around.

They made the usual small talk, and the maze that was the ship made Chase lose track of where he was. He half wondered if he was being lightly hazed because he could have sworn that he had seen this particular fire extinguisher already. Eventually, he was shown his “room”, and claimed a top bunk. The benefits of arriving early sometimes expressed themselves in small ways. The sergeant gave him a second to drop his gear, and then led him on a more direct route to the squadron briefing room.

There were a few other student pilots milling around. He stood listening on the outskirts and then heard the group making plans to jump in the sims for a quick sortie. No one seemed to mind his request to tag along, and he made small talk with a few while they sauntered to the sims.

He was impressed by the size of the facility. There were what looked to be a few dozen simulators. More than enough to have a have an entire squadron practicing at once. He made his way to one towards the edge and climbed in. He was thankful to be in the cockpit – it offered him some protection from the outside world. It wasn’t that he was shy, but he had trouble allowing himself to get close to anyone. Flying allowed him some release.

“Uh…Chase, right? This is Thomas. Looks like you and I are on the same side. Let’s put on a good show for the peanut gallery.” The voice was surprisingly clear, and he wondered if it was because of the fact that they were in the sims, or if this was one of those other advancements of this new technology. The controls definitely looked more advanced than what he used during basic flight, and he didn’t recognize a few of the gauges. How hard can it be, he though. Just point and shoot.

He and PVT Travis “Tank” Thomas did okay on their first sortie, but made a tactical decision to use the town as cover when the second wave of enemy fighters approached. Before they could reach the town, his plane registered two hits. He was out.

Chase was furious – the same voice that had been taunting him during the sim was the same that called him a loser. He expected that pilots had egos, but there was no need to be an ass. He heard Thomas mutter something about FIGJAM. He was about to disconnect his radio and remove his helmet when another voice said, “PVT Chase, please report to colonel Ingram.” Well, crap.


SGT Duncan Harper walked into the sims just in time to overhear COL Donald “Mac” Ingram giving PVT Chase a lecture about collateral damage.

After the surprisingly well-mannered reaming, the men decided to join the rest of the squadron for a night of bar hopping to wash away the troubles. While shooting the shit, FIG JAM and his cronies kept sending Shirley Temples to Harper/Chase’s table. An inebriated Harper made his way over to Caldwell’s table and attempted to plant a jovial kiss, but stumbled into another table. Naturally, a fight broke out between four townies, Harper, Chase, and Tank. Harper saw FIGJAM and his crew slink off away from the brawl.

After trading a few blows, bouncers stepped in to break up the fight, Harper decided discretion was the better part of valor, and ducked out. The last thing he needed was another drunken brawl on his record. The guys made their way back to Prometheus, albeit separately.


Saturday, May 9th, 2009

Harper and Chase made their way to the chow hall the next morning and realized that Tank never made it back to the Prometheus. After a brief search, they learned he was recovering at a local hospital under MP supervision and quickly ran outside to hail a cab.

Harper’s face went pale as they rounded the corner to Tank’s room and he saw the two MPs outside the door. Without giving too much in the way of details, the corporal acknowledged that Thomas took a pretty good beating. Chase and Harper looked at each other quizzically, and Chase asked, “But how? He was fine when we last saw him last night?”

“Oh really? Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” The MP tilted his head to his shoulder as he activated his radio. Harper groaned and slunk down into a seat.


Harper and Chase were called into the 509th XO’s office when they finally returned from being questioned by CID. They had never met the man, and they could barely understand what was being said, but they understood all too well that they were receiving a first class ass-chewing. Captain Ryan “Slipstream” Aldridge quickly dismissed Chase, but kept Harper behind.

“We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already fucking up! I can see why you’ve been demoted more times than than my ex-girlfriend caught the clap. Jeeezus, what were you thinking? The colonel isn’t going to be happy when he finds out. I guaran-fucking-tee you that you should consider yourself warned. Don’t fuck up again, or I’ll have your stripes! Now get your ass out of here!”


May 11th-15th, 2009

InDoc and Veritech familiarization. Paperwork, walkarounds, tech manuals, sims, and check rides. Trainees are informed of the other Veritech modes and the importance of their training, but the emphasis for the next few days would only be flying.

The class had their first solo flights a few days later, and the acceleration of the Veritechs, more than surprised many of the students, as a few of them had issues with takeoffs and landings. Harper earned the call-sign “Plow” after he botched his first solo takeoff when he overshot the runway, applied the brakes too late, skidded, and buried his nose gear into the runoff zone.


While enroute back to the Prometheus after a day of flying aerial obstacle courses, the squadron is jumped by aggressors for their first ACM sortie, with 60% losses for the students within the first few minutes.

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Cadre Prep
Thursday, May 7th, 2009

“Attention on deck!”, bellowed 1SG Emil Foley . His thick British accent normally made him difficult to understand, but the men and women of the 56th OG had been working with him long enough to be able to translate. The personnel quickly scrambled to their feet as Colonel Donald “Mac” Ingram, the Combined Arms Group Commander, walked into the 56th Operations Group briefing room.

“Take your seats”, said Ingram, “I’ll try to make this short because I’ve got to meet Captain Gloval in a few minutes. We’ve got Class 055 showing up tomorrow, and I wanted a SITREP on each department’s status because I know some of you are taking tomorrow off. XO?”

“Sir”, lieutenant colonel Dave “Bunsen” Burner said as he stood, “For the most part, the group is doing well. We are having minor maintenance issues. Nothing life threatening, but there are still shakedown glitches in VTs. Two birds are down for routine maintenance, and maintenance expects them to be ready to go no later than Saturday. I’ll let the squadron commanders give you specifics.”

He paused to gauge Ingram’s reaction, but received only a nod. He continued, “We will have 24 VT and 18 Destroid pilots in this class. One of the VT pilots is a recycle because of a training injury, but the rest are all noobs. A few hotshots, but nothing we haven’t seen before. Based on their SBRs, I don’t anticipate any problems. Hack?”

A short man strode to the front of the room. Unlike most of the other pilots in the room, the wings on his uniform were gold. Lieutenant colonel Pete “Hack” Osman turned towards COL Ingram and said, “Sir, the 309th has one VF-1J down for repair. Sergeant Derrick noticed one of the turret lasers wasn’t responding to inputs, so he’s working with the vendor to figure out what’s going on. She should be up and running by tomorrow. Their first flight isn’t until next Friday, so we have plenty of buffer.” He waited for a response from Ingram, who only blinked.

The room was silent for a few awkward seconds, and finally Osman just stepped off the stage. He was replaced by another light bird who gave a similar status for the 310th. One by one, the major unit heads gave accountability reports. Two Gladiators were undergoing repair from damage caused by a Class 054 student. There was a shortage of milk. Adler Industries sent an entire shipment of incorrectly-sized replacement motherboards for six simulators. One crew chief was on emergency leave because of an illness in the family. The list went on.


Seated in the back of the briefing room was Ryan “Slipstream” Aldridge. Like many of the other junior grade officers, Aldridge held a position higher than someone of his rank normally would normally merit. The Global Civil War’s attrition of experienced military personnel caused many of the world’s militaries to promote whoever was left alive, and he was one of those beneficiaries. A squadron executive officer billet would usually be filled by a major or lieutenant colonel with about 15-20 years of experience, and not a 27 year old Captain who had only been an officer for ten.

However, his flying credentials were unquestionable. His natural ability helped him earn honor graduate awards for his early flight training, and as a teenager he had over 30 aerial victories during the GCW. He loved his job as a flyer, and had resisted this assignment for years. He knew that this was a young man’s game, but a staff position meant he would be flying a desk more than a plane. He sighed a little at the irony – his skills got him where he was, but where he was meant he would have less opportunity to employ those skills.

At least a training position allowed for more flight time than some frontline squadrons, but sometimes he wished for another war.

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