As the distance closed between the Longswords ahead of the cruiser and the alien blockade, the fighters pulled off in a quick and synchronized movement. Each let fly with their single nuclear warhead, aimed at the clusters of ships ahead. The fighters, spent, returned quickly to the hangar of the devastated cruiser. The [i]Everest[/i] floated like a ghost into close range of the armada that awaited, deflecting plasma rounds with its already-seared front plating. Off the bow, the last act of the interceptors met with devastating results. The warheads exploded in a nuclear blast that ravaged the remaining clusters of ships. The devastated craft tore at each other over the calm aquamarine of the ring's surface below. Weakened shields had failed immediately to the overwhelming inferno and now sections of deck, bow, stern, and cannon smashed about amongst the Jackal ships. The [i]Everest[/i] let fly with a final salvo of missiles, its armaments expended. Then, like an exhausted boxer having gone the distance, it threw up another desperation punch from its only working MAC gun. The slug sliced through another Jackal ship and sent it ping-ponging into an unfortunate comrade. The scene disintegrated in a flash. Where the overwhelming number of hooked craft had stood their ground, little remained but shreds and broken cobalt shells. The hollow carcasses of the gutted craft were strewn about in a scrap yard above the bright ring below and moved with a slow ease towards the gravity well of the insatiable gas giant. As though with a relieved sigh, the skeleton of the [i]Everest[/i] floated emptily into synch with the slow rotation of the ring below. The broken warship lumped into place, heaving a haggard last breath and leaving an ominous shadow over the ring's clear surface. Its single cannon panned knowingly over the surface. There the [i]Everest[/i] would remain, paralyzed like a stone watchman. [b]***[/b] Tom shrugged as he strapped into a rough leather chair at the front of the troop bay of a Pelican dropship. The door slid shut to his left. He cracked his neck towards the door and then to the right, his spine tingled in a moment of relaxation. Tom checked the grip on the stock of his MA5B assault rifle and, satisfied with his standard issue, closed his eyes. They would be descending down to the ring's surface. Scans showed favourable conditions: temperate and breathable. The surface, however, was completely covered by ocean. A warm salt-water ocean spread in a wide and vast aqua ribbon around the ring's inside. Speckled throughout the ring's huge sea were miniscule islands, or perhaps installations. Recon teams would be descending to investigate the islands--particularly those that interested the remaining Jackal pirates. The floor under Tom's feet buckled as the dropship disengaged and hovered over the polished hangar bay deck. All around, another nine of the ships lifted off. The steely grey of the oblong Pelican's titanium casing shone under bright florescent lights. In front, the hangar bay doors crunched open to the sight of a Longsword flyby outside. The procession of dropships, snub-nosed and with stunted wings, hovered up and out into the darkness. The Pelican descended towards the ring's surface, past the menacing eclipse of the cruiser and down into the sun's bright blue reflection from the ring. Tom looked around the sweaty metallic troop bay. It smelled industrial, freshly cleaned and then loaded up with warm bodies and canned; the image of sardines made Tom smirk. He surveyed his new squad with mild interest. They were young and fresh, but they'd been trained. Inwardly, he hoped Kate--on another drop--had better luck with her squad. Besides Graves, the other three in his recon team had probably never been in combat. The [i]Everest[/i] had been popped full of holes, its decks gashed and mangled and the crew ravaged. Except for the bridge crew and the gun team, Tom figured everything that was left had been packed into the dropships to take the fight to the surface. Cole had made it clear to them that the [i]Everest[/i] was finished. What remained of the Marines, possibly a hundred, and armed boat crew had been instructed to investigate the ring and engage the enemy. With one main gun still online, the pirates wouldn't be making any kind of escape. The Jackals were interested in the ring, no doubt. They'd sacrificed countless numbers of their comrades to try to keep the [i]Everest[/i] off it. That meant it was valuable and that would be enough for Cole. Control of this ring--whatever it was--was the objective. Secondary to that would be the capture of one of the Jackal vessels. While the water looked inviting, Tom knew that no one had plans to vacation here forever. The Pelican hopped a little and, in unison, so too did its passengers. They had entered the ring's atmosphere. Tom's forehead beaded sweat lightly down to his brow. His teeth clamped together firmly. Wiping away the sweat, he fixed his eyes on the three ahead of him. He took a glance at Graves, in the seat to his right, who nodded knowingly back. Down towards the front of the bay, closer to the cockpit, sat more Marines while a few naval officers stood armed uncomfortably with an assortment of pistols and assault rifles. "This is it! Finally some action," said the female in the middle of the three enthusiastically. "Just take our lead and keep sharp," Graves replied, addressing the new squad. Pvt. Suarez had been the one to pipe up. Tom guessed she had to be only months out of basic. Full of confidence and attitude, she had a squared jaw and tanned Hispanic features. To her left was Pvt. Dubois--an altogether normal Marine with pale skin and close-cut black hair. To the right of Suarez sat Pvt. Carter quietly. Like the other two he was young, probably only twenty. He was well-built with dark chocolate features and a neck that bulged slightly as his jaw clenched under the atmospheric pressure. "I'll be ready sir," Carter stated. He flashed a wide pearlescent smile and tapped his helmet with a closed fist. The speaker in the troop bay buzzed with static as a woman with a southern drawl yelled "Hang on; it's going to get ugly!" Tom looked at Graves wisely. It was getting unbearably warm under his green flak jacket and solid brown aluminum chest plate. His socks were moist in his thick leather boots and his olive fatigues stuck to his legs. He breathed a sigh as the Pelican bumped out of the atmosphere. In unison with Graves, he took off his helmet and slid it under himself. Sitting on his helmet Tom clasped the seat's two shoulder straps with purpose and dug in. The three young Marines looked quizzically at Graves and then Tom; the two now sat perched firmly on their helmets. Carter followed suit, sliding his helmet under himself nervously. Dubois simply tapped his helmet unknowingly, trying to put on an air of comprehension.