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Somewhere on the Western Border
— Miron Province
Time of Day: Evening
“Fox One,” Colonel Thompson said and swallowed. His fingers tightened on the radio. “Mission is a go.”
“Copy.” Major Avarice pressed his display. Tapping in a code, he paused. A bead of sweat rolled across his brow and dropped onto sealed rubber. Within the gas mask, he licked his lips. The jet shuddered. His body jerked forward and black straps tightened against his jump suit.
Mechanisms turned beneath—the automated gearshift activated and cogs churned. Turbo emissions blew through jet-pipes in a black propulsion. Head snapped back, the Major’s chest rose as oxygen pumped from his mask into his lungs; under several pounds of gravitational pressure, he couldn’t breathe on his own. Dark plumes shot out into open air, guzzled from tripled turbines. The aircraft’s reinforced frame reverberated under the strain.
Avarice gasped. White eyes slowly turned bloodshot as blood slid in a trickle from his nose. He blinked and his vision wavered despite the flooded oxygen. The strain of g-forces shifted puffed clouds to a streamed blur in open sky. A slit widened beneath the jet and retracting from the aircraft, the missile bay of the R1 Reaper detached its anti-grav catch…