Fifteen minutes. Connor ate away at the time checking all systems twice and weapons once again for good measure. Both long-range missile systems, one launcher riding over his left shoulder and the other replacing his left arm, checked out fine -- fully loaded and missiles armed. Diagnostics on the centerline large laser and both machine guns read in the green. The Mydron 80 millimeter autocannon on his right arm showed an intermittent fault, so Sinclair cleared the ammunition feed that pulled the depleted uranium slugs up from his right torso and refed the weapon. The fault indication disappeared. It would do for now.

A minor fluctuation of gravity warned Sinclair that the DropShip was maneuvering for insertion. The main thrusters wavered in strength for a moment and then were dampened, losing the artificial gravity brought on by constant thrust. Lateral thrusters rolled the Black Hammer and created pockets of micro-gravity constantly shifting in direction. Used to solid ground beneath his feet, the lance leader rode it out with teeth clenched so tight as to hurt his jaw.

“Commando One, prepare for deployment. Good hunting, Damocles. Counting down from 20… 19…”

The Bushwacker’s computer was fed a signal from the DropShip, and the computer voice overlaid the final few counts with its own pre-drop checklist. Connor listened in to the last few seconds, tensing for the drop. “Shield integrity confirmed. Power curve, optimal. Drop check complete, all systems nominal. Landing coordinates confirmed.”

A solid weight slammed into Sinclair’s back as the pod was rudely ejected from the Black Hammer. He couldn’t breathe and felt certain in that second that his heart had stopped beating as well. The pressure squeezed at his stomach. Then as abruptly as it had begun it was over, the pod, Bushwacker and pilot in freefall. Only a light bucking indicated that the drop-pod was beginning to hit the upper atmosphere.

One of the cockpit auxiliary screens flickered to life as the computer patched it in to sensors mounted on the outside of the shield. It showed dark space interrupted only by the harsh pinpricks of stars as they are seen only from space. The pod rolled on its attitude jets, bringing the Black Hammer into the camera’s eye. The Union-class DropShip was an immense white-gray sphere hanging against that black backdrop, but growing smaller by the second. He saw a blur against one arc of the hull which light have been another drop-pod launching outward.

Everything seemed to be proceeding according to plan.

And that was when it all fell apart.

There was no warning. If Sinclair had blinked, he might have missed it. Even so, he would never be certain if the azure flare was a true memory or supplied by his mind to explain the sudden explosion that burst from the side of the DropShip. A flash of-possible-coherent light and then a silvery spray of melted armor raining out into space, chased by the catastrophic evacuation of atmosphere, equipment and personnel through the rent in the Black Hammer’s side. The DropShip tumbled toward the edge of Sinclair’s screen even as the emergency comm frequency overrode his receiving equipment to chatter a flurry of mixed transmissions into his ear.

“What the hell was that?”

“Can’t get a reading on…”

“…you confirm ‘Mech pod deployment?”

“...day, mayday, we are going… down…”

On screen the DropShip rocked again as if a fragile globe struck by an invisible fist. More debris spilled out as the vessel slid away from Sinclair’s camera angle. Silence reigned for all of three seconds, the lieutenant gripping the arms of his control chair with near-panic strength. Then the comm gear changed over automatically to a new channel, flashing the emergency frequency for the Eclipse.