RUNNING

"<1M" is what my radar altimeter said. Engines whining, temperature too high, bouncing between yellow and red. Running for all we were worth, through canyons, down riverbeds, below treetops. Scouts don't run as fast as attack craft, don't have the ordnance capacity, can't stay on target as long. But then, attack craft are noisy, and can't get as low, tend to be seen early and haven't ever managed to sneak up on anyone. So there's that.

Someone on Satcom 1 was screaming. He was being overrun and needed help. We were close. The moving map had us within 3k, straight-line distance, but to get there at a useful angle, to be able to shoot and help him, we had to go around a mountain and get behind the guys that were shooting at him. It was more than 7k. Even so, we were the closest. Attack craft had been told to go, we heard it on Satcom 2, but they were at least an hour out, maybe more. It would take them 45 minutes to get off the ground, then flight time, no chance of being involved in this fight. It would be done in less than 30 minutes, one way or the other.

4k now, engines at the limit. Running for all we were worth, weapons ready, left-seaters talking on Satcom 1 and updating the moving map. Headquarters talking all over Satcom 2, telling us to wait, to let Attack get in there. A short discussion on FM 1, and the flight turned off the transponders. Headquarters could no longer see us, at least in theory. Of course, orbital assets could always see everything, hear everything, but prosecuting us would require admitting that capability, and our gamble was that nobody was going for that hurdle in this particular war. When the call came, we both denied turning them off. Mountains obstruct line of sight, and even orbital assets have trouble unless they are directly overhead. More protests, and we switched off Satcom 2.

2k, and the poor bastard being overrun had gotten desperate. He'd called in everything he could get locally, and it wasn't enough. We were less than a minute out and asking for targets, actually climbing so that we could start our dives, which was standard for a scout attack profile. He was trying to hold us off, afraid he'd have to stop his other fires to let us attack. We weren't stopping. We knew the risks, we knew that there was a chance we get hit with his other fires, but we also knew he died if we didn't go in. We went in.

We crested the ridge, and the targets popped up on our screens. Firing, breaking, climbing and bumping to fire again, and again, and again. It was easily five hundred men attacking our twenty. We took fire when the enemy realized we are there, more as he understood the threat we represented. We took hits. We continued to attack. Within the first few passes, we were "winchester", out of ammo for our primary weapons. The enemy was still assaulting, despite serious casualties, and the issue was very much in doubt. Doors got jettisoned so left-seaters could lean out and fire carbines, despite the loss of performance. It made all the difference in the world.

It had been thirty minutes since we got to this valley. The fight was mostly over, and certainly won. Satcom 1 was blowing up with two more Ground Force Commanders screaming for help.

We ran for the Forward Arming and Refuelling Point, the FARP, to take on fuel and ammo. Transponders came back on, and Satcom 2 miraculously worked again. The FARP monkeys didn't bat an eye when we asked for carbine ammo and grenades with our other ordnance, they'd seen it too many times. We launched again toward the sound of the gunfire and the cries of the desperate. This was our day, every day, for years.

Sometimes we couldn't save them. Sometimes no matter what we did, or how many passes we made, the enemy won. It was part of the war, part of fighting so far from home with so few assets. We ran as fast as we could to save as many as we could, it's the Sacred Trust, and we could not violate it.

We still can't, even if you at home can. Scouts. Out.