Tommy’s confusion had given away to utter shock. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, NOT AGAIN!
“Oh, and what did they fail the inspection for? Contract fraud?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris “MOGS” DiNote, has served over twenty years so far in the United States Air Force and Air National Guard (Pennsylvania and Ohio). He has deployed for Operations Enduring Freedom, Iraqi Freedom, and Noble Eagle. Chris is a graduate of the US Air Force Academy and the USAF Weapons School. He holds an M.A. in Military History from Norwich University, and a Master’s in Strategic Studies from the Air War College. An amateur musician, Chris has also played saxophone and bass in several bands. He was born in Philadelphia PA, raised in South Jersey, and currently resides in the Florida Panhandle with his wife and usual co-author Jaime, and their daughter Remy. This is his first published solo work of fiction.
EDITOR’S NOTE
It’s been a pleasure welcoming several non-US writers to show their vision for the future. It’s good to see that the environment of service crosses national boundaries.
FOR THE DUTY
Ray Daley
Any call received two minutes before the end of your working day is normally going to be trouble, but you take it anyway. Someone in the world might be dying and your help could be the only thing between them and the Grim Reaper.
Five years of military experience in the Royal Air Force had taught me this almost ever wasn't the case (apart from that one time I helped the guy who ended up becoming famous in the movie Behind Enemy Lines. My part in his survival was written out of his story though.), but it was probably going to mean a longer working day. It normally did.
So I did my job, I answered the phone. "Air Staff, S.A.C. Daley speaking."
I didn't recognise the voice on the other end. Well, you generally don't, on a unit of over a thousand people. "You asked about a transfer?"
He didn't even give me the chance to say yes.
"Well, it's come through. Don't bother going to the Mess for tea. You're due on a flight in an hour. By the time you get back to your room, there'll be someone waiting to drive you to your designated transport. There's no need to worry about clearing the unit, that's already been taken care of by the Yanks. Oh, yes, probably should have led with that, I guess? You've been seconded to the Space Force. Just show them what belongings you want to be moved overseas. I'm told you'll be fed on the flight across, maybe try to get some sleep too. They want you to start as soon as you arrive. Congratulations S.A.C. Daley, do us proud!!"
In hindsight, I now wish I had asked that mysterious man for his name. At least then I'd know who to blame for getting me into this mess.
He was right though. There was a truck parked outside the block when I got back, and five men waiting outside my door.
"S.A.C. Daley? Just show us what you need moving, mate. We'll pack it. Whatever you don't want overseas, we'll ship to your next of kin address. It'll all be waiting when you get a chance to come home. Space Force, eh? Sounds like a pretty good gig, that. I was told to tell you, there's a ride for you in five minutes time. Civilian dress only. We'll shift your kit to Unit Supply for clearance. The room has already been signed off as acceptable."
****
I got a chance to grab a bag, a change of clothes and my civvies to travel in. That and my wallet. The lads they'd sent packed the rest of my civilian life into two large cardboard boxes. I dumped all my R.A.F. kit on the bed for them. Apparently, someone in Supply had been made to wait so they could clear me from the unit completely. With bag in hand, I was whisked away in one of the M.T. (Motor Transport) cars normally reserved for officers.
You know it's a big deal when you're given a police escort. Officially, the USAF unit they took me to was no longer in use. The rather nice passenger jet on the tarmac said otherwise. Now, generally for overseas travel, you show passports and visas. No such thing happened to me. I was taken aboard, my box of gear would follow on later, they told me.
They told me a lot of things which later didn't turn out to be true.
There was no meal waiting for me on the flight, for starters. I spent nine hours in the air, with little more than potato chips and sandwiches. I did get four hours of solid sleep though. Transitioning time zones wasn't a task I was entirely unused to. I'd done more than my fair share of revolving night and days shifts during my first two wars.
****
I woke up about thirty minutes before we landed. The young lady acting as steward made sure I had all my things ready to leave as soon as we'd reached the terminal. Ah. We didn't reach a terminal. An air-bridge was wheeled over to us, and I was hustled inside. There was a young man standing halfway down the now-sealed tunnel. "Is your name Daley?"
I nodded and gave a thumbs up. Apparently, that was also the signal for the air-bridge to start driving us to where ever the fuck I was going next.
I'll tell you this much. It certainly looked like a plane on the inside. I never saw the outside.
I went through the same identification process getting aboard. The young woman in blue asked my surname, checked my full service number and blood type too. No-one tends to ask for that unless they expect a medical emergency. I filed it as unusual. She took me to a seat which looked more like that of a jet fighter. Lots of straps to be fastened and secured.
"Don't touch the straps, sir. I'll let you know when it's safe to leave your seat. Silly question, but have you ever pulled more than three gees before, sir?"
I told her I had, several times in the same day. I was a keen roller coaster rider in my younger years. I'd pulled at least four gees on various different coasters. I was also slightly concerned that she wasn't just being polite by calling me sir. "Miss, just so you know. I'm a junior rank in the Royal Air Force, not an officer. You don't have to address me as sir. You probably outrank me, in fact."
As she turned to leave, I'm almost certain she muttered, "Not in this Force, sir."
****
The last time I had pulled more than three gees, it was for less than five seconds. On that journey, we were on hard jets almost the entire time, all bar the last five minutes. The trip itself lasted about nineteen minutes. My liver was still quivering when we finally stopped moving. I was about to reach for my straps when I heard the young ladies voice. "Passengers please remain seated. Do not attempt to unstrap yourself. An attendant will be with you once artificial gravity has been fully established."
I filed that as worth asking about. I didn't get the chance aboard the plane. Which I later found out wasn't a plane.
I was asked various pertinent questions once I disembarked. The Sergeant manning the arrivals desk was polite but thorough. "I'm Sergeant Miller. Are you the only passenger aboard, sir?"
I nodded and said yes.
"Name of Daley, formerly Royal Air Force?" Then he shot me my full service number.
"Yes, that's me."
Sergeant Miller took my picture, I wasn't expecting it, so I looked awful on the ID card he presented me with.
"This is your Space Force identity card, sir. You'll be expected to learn your new service number by heart." Then he saluted me.
On reading the whole card, I saw why. They had me listed as a Second Lieutenant. Ah, I'd better fix that mistake right away. "You can put that hand down, Sergeant. I'm not a Lieutenant. I came from the junior ranks. Your equivalent rank would be Private."
Sergeant Miller shook his head. "The Royal Air Force said they'd send an officer, sir. They sent you, you're the only one here. So you must be our officer. Are you religious, sir? It says Church Of England on your documents. Do I need to correct that?"
"Mark me down as agnostic, Sergeant. I don't believe in God. If he existed, I would have been treated much better in my air force."
Then he passed me a piece of paper in plastic. "Read this aloud please, sir?"
I began scanning the thi
ng before actually reading it out loud.
"Aloud, sir."
I gave Sergeant Miller my finest raised eyebrow. "The manual of Air Force Law states that ignorance of the law is not an excuse for breaking it. It's my understanding that you have the same policy, just nod if that's correct."
He nodded. "Good. Then, in that case, I'm going to read this document fully before committing myself to anything, Sergeant. My parents taught me two important life lessons. My mother taught me it's always better to take a jacket. My father taught me to always read the small print. You will not harangue, pressure or bully me into reading anything aloud which I haven't first fully examined to my satisfaction. If that's going to be an issue in this branch of the service, I'll ask you to release me from my position here. I'll make my way back to England using my own money."
Sergeant Miller then waited until I had read the entire document. I could tell he was trying not to laugh, the whole time I was reading.
Eventually, I was satisfied enough to read it. Out loud, I mean. "I affirm that I will serve the Space Force and those appointed to command me. I will, to the best of my ability, undertake my duty and defend my planet."
At least he didn't make me swear on a Bible or to any God. "Can you sign this? It merely states you have accepted the commission at the rank of Second Lieutenant into the Space Force, sir."
That was a lie. It stated I would serve Uncle Sam for a minimum of six years. I pointed out that part to Sergeant Miller.
"Minimum engagement into the Space Force is two years, sir. For an officer, it's six. And you are an officer now, sir."
I had him there. "I'm only an officer if I sign that. I guess you're the lead admin guy here? Who is your direct superior? I think I need to speak to him."
****
I took that commission. I didn't really have much of a choice. Because his direct superior was me, as I discovered.
Once Sergeant Miller had explained that point, he asked me an unusual question. "Where do you think you are, sir?"
They hadn't told me a great deal about the transfer. What little research I was able to do on the car ride to the plane ride had told me we were operating out of Dryden Air Force base. "I assume we're at Dryden, Sergeant?"
Sergeant Miller shook his head and pressed a button. A set of steel shutters rolled up next to us. "Perhaps you should look out of the window, sir?"
It was a stunning view of the blue marble, Earth. It was a long way down too. Miles, probably. My heart tried to leap out of my chest three times before Sergeant Miller finally closed the shutters. "This is Space Station One, Lieutenant Daley. They told you it was a secondment to the Space Force, right?"
I nodded, as slowly as possible. Under the circumstances, it was about as much as I could manage at the time. Things like not being sick were high on my priority list right then. Speaking and moving could come later. If I lived that long.
"Space Force, sir. The clue is in the name. If you wanted to get back to England out of your own pocket, I'm reliably informed a private trip currently costs eight million dollars, sir. Elon Musk says he's trying to make it cheaper, but it'll be at least another decade before he thinks that's possible. And begging your pardon Lieutenant, you won't make that kind of money in the next six years."
Sergeant Miller was the third person aboard Space Station One. I was the fourth. Before him had been an engineer who'd landed first to ensure we had things like heat, light, oxygen and gravity. You know, all the really important stuff, to keep you alive. Second aboard had been our head of catering, to ensure we got food. Miller had done their paperwork when he arrived, then his own. And now mine. My job was to be the person people spoke to if they didn't like what Sergeant Miller had to say to them.
I was shown to a cabin, they were all the same, regardless of rank. A small cubicle with somewhere to sleep and ablute. Apparently, my box of gear was shipped to Dryden, our official ground station. Our job was in the Space Force, so that was where we operated. Just like Miller had said, the clue was in the name.
My cabin held enough uniforms to work a week. We had facilities to wash them aboard. I was allowed to wear my own clothes whilst off duty.
Space Station One sat in high orbit, one side constantly facing Earth. A geostationary orbit, just a little further out than the International Space Station. Before you ask me, we couldn't see it and it couldn't see us either. We had deliberately been placed out of the line of sight. You know the military, we're all secretive and shit about stuff. I'm only able to tell you this now because it's all recently been declassified.
****
Everyone knows what happened to Space Station One. I'm rather pleased that I got all the escape drill training before we were smashed out of orbit. Sergeant Miller wasn't heavy, especially with our gravity plates no longer functioning. I knew exactly where everyone was, and our escape pod was built to hold eight. There were only seven of us aboard when it happened. It's my understanding that Specialist Wilson will recover from her skull fracture. She weighed next to nothing, even when we had gravity.
Of course, Space Station Two will be opening next week. I've consulted any number of lawyers, but sadly I'll be aboard the first shuttle back up there. Sergeant Miller won't be much use in admin with two broken arms. We'll welcome him back aboard once he's fully healed. After all, he still owes the Space Force twenty-one months of service.
When I joined the Royal Air Force, I thought six years would take forever to pass. If it's like this all the time, I'll have blinked and become a damn civilian again before I get used to being Second Lieutenant Daley.
Sorry. That's a lie too. It's Captain Daley, now. All that bravery under duress didn't go unrewarded. Uncle Sam values his troops, and I personally saved six of them. Well, seven if you count my own ass too. I was given a citation, and some bird Colonel down at Dryden pinned a set of double bars on me.
I almost thought I was going to up-chuck when he called me Captain Daley. I was sure I could hear spinning too, that was probably my father in his grave.
I'll be back in space soon enough, welcoming our new batch of personnel. It's almost the same layout as the first station, just twice the size. Uncle Sam has been recruiting hard, all over this wonderful planet of ours.
If you don't like it on board, sure, you can ask to speak to me. And if you still don't like it after that, I'll be happy to escort you to the nearest airlock, just to show how far away home really is. Before he was hurt, Sergeant Miller told me he had to do that once, with our chef.
The funny thing about being stationed at Headquarters Space Command, no-one wants to walk home. Some of them will gripe, but once shown the view, all bets are off. Everyone wants to stay. Who wouldn't want to protect Earth, with this kind of view?
Frankly, I'm sort of looking forward to getting back up there. Sitting in my tin can. I'll make sure everyone does their job. If not out of love, then for the duty.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.
EDITOR’S NOTE
One thing for sure, service men and women are able to create their own fun, no matter where they are stationed. Wise commanders know when - and how often - to crack down. Sometimes the most effective tactic is to take control of it.
This story has a surprise at the end. Some of you will appreciate it
DICK DIBBLE’S BIRTHDAY
Susan Murrie Macdonald
Sean Fitzgerald Rooney didn't believe it was important to know things. He thought it was more important to know what questions to ask, and of whom, than knowing things.
That might be why most of McHenry County was surprised when he enlisted in the US
SF. You have to be smart to be accepted into Space Force, and most people confuse being smart with memorizing facts and solving problems. Well, not everyone in McHenry County; some people didn't know Sean Fitzgerald Rooney.
Sending people into space is expensive, so the government only wants to send the best. Certainly his teachers were surprised. Sean Fitzgerald Rooney had devoured science fiction since he learned how to read, but his science skills were limited to knowing Isaac Newton had been bonked with an apple, Joseph Priestley killed a mouse, and Gregor Mendel was a gardener. He could manage math well enough to handle money and knew enough geometry to determine how much carpet a room needed, but he couldn't even spell calculus.
Sean Fitzgerald Rooney had two rules that made his life easier. First, if you know something has been done by someone at some point in time, you can almost always figure out how to do it again. Maybe not as neatly nor as prettily, but you can get it done. Second, never bother the lieutenant with extraneous details.
Sean Fitzgerald Rooney had the sort of memory that lent itself to crossword puzzles, trivia games, etc. It made him look smarter than he was, which is probably why when he transferred from the USAF to the USSF, he was a corporal. That and he'd taken JROTC in high school. Of course, he'd only done so to skip PE in school.
After Rooney had finished all the training he could get at Cape Canaveral, he went on a long leave to Illinois to say goodbye to his family and friends, stock up on supplies, and then up to Luna for advanced training.
Space Force: Building The Legacy Page 3