The Chronicles of Heaven's War: Hell Above the Skies

by Ava D. Dohn

The 14 slammed hard into the Sophia’s flight deck. “Careful, Major!” A voice scolded. “We’ll get you to the hangar deck in short order… Won’t help trying to get there yourself.”

  Sirion cussed under her breath as she reached across to the tear in the left sleeve of her flight suit. She could feel the jagged shard of metal skewered through her arm. It had missed the bone and artery. That was good news. At least, ‘shouldn’t take the medics long to stitch it up,’ she thought. “Sorry I messed up your paint job, Con. Think it needs to be redone anyway.”

  “Thank you for the appraisal, Major. Will pass the information along.” The con replied. “Now, stay put. We’ll hook you in momentarily.” Although the con usually spoke unemotionally, the operators were most concerned about their pilots and flight crews. The banter from Sirion was reassuring, telling them she wasn’t in immediate danger or seriously wounded. When there wasn’t this little exchange, they would begin to worry.

  Sirion waited around the hangar deck while the mechanics examined her ship. As one of them approached her, the woman saw a huge drop of blood fall from Sirion’s finger and plop on the deck. She looked up at the torn sleeve. “Major, I suggest you get that checked out.”

  Sirion grumped, “It’s a scratch! How bad’s my plane?”

  “Bad enough.” The mechanic answered, looking at the major’s sleeve. “Bad enough to give you plenty of time to get your arm checked out.”

  Sirion went on about her need to get back into the fight. The mechanic stopped her. “I’m admiral of this crew. If I say your plane doesn’t fly, it won’t fly. Right now I’m saying your plane is out of service until I see a medical report telling me it can fly. Do you get my drift, Major?”

  “Damn it! I need that ship!” Sirion fumed.

  The mechanic said nothing. She turned to the other mechanics and called out. “It’s got a bad ding-floogle! Tag it out until I can get it fixed.” She turned back to Sirion, her arms folded across her chest. “It’s got a bad ding-floogle.”

  Sirion threw up her hands in surrender. “You win! You win! I’ll go see the vet!” She shook her finger at the mechanic. “When I get back, you’d better have that ding-whatever fixed, or I’ll go talk to the other admiral.”

  The mechanic smiled, “I’m sure we’ll find the needed parts to get it up and running.”

  Level six, triage center was already filling up. Most of the injuries were from heavies, which always had high attrition rates. With crews of six to twelve, these slower-moving attack craft made easy targets. Burns, shrapnel and concussion wounds were common. In the current heavy, ship-to-ship fighting, losses were running thirty percent, with a twenty percent casualty rate among returning crews. Sirion looked around the room, the results of this morning’s sortie filling most available beds. And only the first attack wave had returned from its mission so far.

  A medic and orderly hurried around the room, tagging the injured. The medic would make a hasty examination of the patient and then direct the orderly to note the types and seriousness of the injuries. The orderly would then scribe a series of marks on the person’s face, indicating where the patient was to go and the priority for treatment. As Sirion watched, she opened her flight suit and pulled it down below her wound.

  The medic, Major SeleinaDorimia, finally worked her way around to Sirion. She saw the uniform and eyed Sirion with suspicion. “Take it off, Major!”

  “What?!” Sirion asked, dumbfounded.

  Major Seleina scowled. “I know your kind, Major. You rocket jockeys are all the same, thinking you can pull one over on the ol’ doc. Now take it off or I’ll give you some assistance!”

  Sirion saw the look on the Seleina’s face and decided to obey without giving her further aggravation. She stood, dropping her suit to the floor. That wasn’t good enough. Sirion undid her under-shirt, girdle and under-drawers, letting them fall, too.

  Seleina put her hands on each side of the major’s body, her fingers searching up and down Sirion’s entire torso. She bent over to check the girl’s hips and upper thighs. Suddenly she stopped, staring at Sirion’s belly, seeing a tiny, dark-purple bruise. Eventually she stood, squinting in disgust at her.

  Sounding like a mother who has just caught her child in the cookie jar, Seleina asked, “So tell me, Major, just how long were you going to wait before saying something about that pain in your gut?”

  Sirion’s face filled with mock innocence. “What pa…Ooh!” She was given a little poke by Seleina. “Ooh!” She grimaced. “I…I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’ve got a chunk of metal in your gut, and it’s got to come out!” The major was becoming angry. “Do you realize just how close you’ve come to killing yourself?” She wagged her finger at Sirion. “If you had let this go, it likely would have started you hemorrhaging, especially when you began playing acrobat out there! Major, your little trick is stupid! A little minor surgery should fix you up for now. Why, you’ll be flying again in twenty-four hours or so.”

  Before Sirion could reply, Seleina told her orderly, “Put her down for priority treatment. Fighter pilots with minor injuries go to the top of the list. If this fool wants to get herself killed, we don’t want to hold her up!”

  Seleina turned away, swiftly moving to another patient. Sirion felt sheepish. Half the room heard her dressing-down, and she was sure the gossip would make its rounds. After all, fighter pilots were always considered the pampered lot aboard a ship. The apparent special treatment and attention given them did create more than a little well-deserved jealousy among the crew, especially the common sailor.

  To add insult to injury, the orderly whisked away Sirion’s clothes in one hand and scribbled some coded letters across her forehead. Without making any reply, the orderly grabbed Sirion’s arm and, half-dragging her, led her to the distribution room. There she sat naked for a half hour, waiting to be taken to surgery.

  As she drifted into a deathlike sleep on the operating table, the last thing Sirion heard was the surgeon exclaiming to a helper, “Damned luckiest person I’ve seen! That thing’s the length of my hand, and it missed all her vital organs.”