Ragnarok-ARC

by Patrick A. Vanner

  Looking around the compartment, taking everything in, he noticed Corporal Clark watching him intently.

  "I know it's not much, but it's home," she said.

  "Where is everybody, Corporal?" Alan asked her, still examining the compartment.

  "Call me Tracy. We're pretty informal in Recon." She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, indicating the chair across from her. She waited for him to sit before continuing.

  "As for where everybody is, that's easy. Some of the battalion is dirtside. Most of the rest are on-station."

  "How come?"

  "Well, the Old Man gave the battalion a seventy-two-hour liberty. We're shipping out today, and everybody's taking the opportunity to get in as much fun as possible. I don't expect to see many people until around fifteen hundred."

  "Why fifteen hundred?"

  "There's a formation at sixteen hundred."

  "Okay, I can understand people wanting to go dirtside. I remember seeing something about a shuttle run between Folkvang and Andrews every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. But why is everyone else aboard station? Don't they have pretty much the same things there as they do here?"

  "God, I can tell you've never been on-ship before." Laughing again and looking into his eyes, she waited until she had his attention before passing on this little tidbit of wisdom. "Yes, the facilities are the same—hell, this is a new ship and the facilities are probably better—but the station is not the ship. We're going to be stuck in this tin can for a long time. No need to stare at the bulkheads any more than necessary. Savvy?"

  "Makes sense to me."

  "Okay, now that we've got your gear stowed, let's go. I'll show you around your new home."

  "Yes, Corporal," Alan said stiffly. Her casual humor and seeming devil-may-care attitude made him nervous, and he wondered how he was supposed to act. Tracy apparently saw his discomfort, and she burst out laughing, slapping the table as she stood.

  "Tracy," she reminded him. "Once you get settled and loosen up a bit, I think you're going to fit right in with this fire team."

  "Let me ask you something, Tracy," Alan started timorously, trying to shake his nervousness as they stepped through the hatch and began to walk down the passageway. "If everyone is out enjoying their time off, why aren't you? Not that I don't appreciate what you're doing."

  "Well, Alan, lets just say our estimable squad leader, Lieutenant Dietz, does not seem to have a sense of humor as developed as mine—though he does seem to have vindictive streak a kilometer wide. He took the entire squad down to Georgetown for a unit party." She looked at Alan, shaking her head ruefully. "While I'm confined to the ship for the duration of our stay in port."

  "What did you do?"

  "Do you want the long version or the short version?"

  "The long version, of course."

  "Well, Lance Corporal Lewis, this is what happened," she began as they continued down the passageway. Alan could not help but laugh as her story unfolded, but he began worrying about fitting in. His new fire-team leader apparently had limitless energy, boundless enthusiasm, and a very questionable sense of humor. Regardless of whether or not he fit in, it looked as if he had managed, once again, to get himself in the middle of what seemed to be developing into a very interesting situation.

  "The story of my life," he sighed as Tracy continued to regale him with stories of her "humorous" activities.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  USS Valhalla

  October 13, 2197

  0845 z

  Sol

  Newly promoted Commander Elaine "Barbie" Grant, former squadron commander of Valkyrie Flight 127, assigned USS Fenris, now wing commander of Valkyrie Wing 115, assigned USS Valhalla, strode across the hangar deck toward her waiting fighter.

  Seeing a figured dressed in flight gear standing beside it, she quickened her pace. The man must have sensed her approach, because he turned to face her as she drew up behind him. Dressed in flight gear, it was difficult for her to determine what kind of build he had, but he was the same height as she. Helmet tucked under one arm and with his other hand on his hip, he stood there cockily. Jet-black hair, obviously pushing the grooming standards, dark brown eyes, and a pencil-thin mustache only added to his demeanor. All and all, she thought he looked like the stereotypical hotshot flier. She was not impressed.

  "Ah, Commander Grant, how nice to meet you. I'm Commander Socha, your new RIO," he said, cheerfully extending his hand, seemingly oblivious to the glare she directed at him. Hesitating for a moment, then letting his hand drop when she did not accept it, he continued to smile. "Not much for conversation, are you?"

  "You're not supposed to be here." she accused him.

  "I am assuming you were expecting Lieutenant Eichinger." He waited for her nod before continuing. "Yes, well, the CAG decided that you've had enough time to torture potential candidates. You've gone through, what, three in two days, I believe?"

  "Something like that."

  "There you have it. Oh, and don't get your hopes up that I'll be number four. I guarantee you there is nothing you can do in this bird that I can't handle. You won't get me puking my guts up like your last victim."

  "You think so, do you?" she said in a mildly interested voice.

  "Most certainly. This is the latest model Valkyrie, equipped with all the latest systems available." Still smiling, Socha turned toward the waiting Valkyrie and patted the fuselage. When he turned back, his smile had become an evil grin. "I was on one of the flight teams that helped test it. You may push the envelope, Commander, but I defined the envelope. So, like I said, your auditions are over. Now it's time to have some fun."

  "This is not fun."

  "Of course it is. It's flying, and flying is always fun. Hell, it's even better than sex," he exclaimed, spreading his arms, voice cheery once again. "Sure, there are some risks involved, but that just adds a little spice."

  Dropping her helmet and reaching out, Barbie grabbed the front of Socha's flight harness and hurled him up again the plane.

  "Are you out of your fucking mind?!" she shouted at him incredulously. "This is not a fucking game."

  "Really?" Socha's innocent voice only angered her more. Not believing what she was hearing, Barbie shook him, trying to knock some sense into the man.

  "God damn it, this is serious!"

  "Dangerous?"

  "Yes!" Veins standing out on her neck as she yelled at the man in her grip.

  "People can die?"

  "Yes! People can die!" Barbie's shouts could be heard above the din of the hangar deck.

  "Like Digger?" Socha asked softly.

  * * *

  Commander David Socha stared into the face of the woman who held him pinned up against the side of a Valkyrie. Watching as her expression changed from white-hot anger to confusion and sorrow, he felt a swelling of sympathy for the woman whose walls he had just shattered.

  "Digger?" she said, and Socha could feel her grip on his harness loosen as she stumbled back almost as if he had punched her. Which, in a way, he had.

  "Yes, Digger." He kept his voice soft and level.

  Socha and the CAG had met in flight school and had developed a deep friendship. Each had owed the other innumerable favors, so when his old friend had approached him about the problems his wing commander was having, he agreed to help. He would have helped in any case, regardless of their friendship. He knew what the young woman in front of him was going through; he had been there himself.

  "What do you know about it?" Her anger was clearly returning.

  "I know he is dead, and I know that you miss him." Hating himself for it, he continued, knowing that he would be setting her off again, "And you need to get over it."

  Yes, that definitely set her off.

  "Get over it?! He was my best friend." Her voice echoed around the hangar deck. "I flew with him for years. I was closer to him than to any other person in my life, and you expect me to just get over it?" Socha watched as tears began to stream down her face.
A good sign.

  "Yes, I do. Because you don't have a choice."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "You're the wing commander. You've got responsibilities, and you can't let your personal feelings get in the way of that."

  "I'm not. I'm doing my job." The accusation in her voice was unmistakable.

  "Really? What do you call three RIOs in two days?" He saw he had made his point when the look of guilt flashed across her face. Hanging her head, she spoke so softly that he almost missed it.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Barbie." he began, and, not getting a response, he tried a different approach. "Elaine, look at me."

  Barbie raised her head to look him in the face. He could see the shame and grief plainly evident beneath the tears.

  "You're the best pilot in the fleet, and we need you. Not some soulless automaton just going through the motions. You."

  "I want to," she sobbed, "but I just . . . I can't . . . " Her mouth worked soundlessly as Socha watched her search for the words.

  "I know."

  "What should I do?"

  "Well, the first thing you should do is cancel this morning's flight." he said, bending down and retrieving their helmets. "You're in no condition to fly right now, and besides, you don't need to audition any more RIOs, do you?"

  "I guess not." Giving him a small smile.

  "Then"—handing her helmet to her, then putting his arm around her shoulders, he began to walk toward the hatch of First Squadron's ready room—"What do you say we get out of this flight gear, find something to drink, and toast Digger and the rest of our fallen comrades?"

  "I think I'd like that."

  "And after that"—his voice taking on a cold and vicious edge—"we kill every Xan-Sskarn that crosses our path."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  USS Valhalla

  October 13, 2197

  1000 z

  Sol

  Captain Alexandra McLaughlin sat at the head of a long conference table, looking at the assembled officers seated around it. Unlike her previous commands, it looked as if the designers of the Valhalla had actually taken into account that the captain of a ship might like to be able gather all of her senior staff in the ward room at one time without the room becoming claustrophobic.

  Quiet, individual conversations took place as the last of the chairs filled, and Alex took this time to survey her new command staff.

  Seated in her customary position to the right of her captain, Commander Grace "Heron" Denton sat quietly, reading a pad. Craning her neck slightly, Alex could see that her oldest friend was once again firmly engrossed with a technical manual. Alex had been relieved when she received the news that Heron had been assigned as the Valhalla's chief engineer. Normally that position would have been filled weeks, if not months ago, and it had been; however, High Command thought that the man's experience would be of greater use overseeing the completion of one of the Valhalla's sister ships and hopefully speeding it up. So Commander Denton had fallen into the position, being the most qualified candidate available. Taking a closer look at her friend, she could see the dark circles under her eyes and slight slump of her shoulders. Obviously, events aboard the Fenris, along with her rush to learn as much as possible about the ship she was expected to keep flying, had taken their toll. She made a mental note to talk to her and get her to take a break.

  Next to Heron, Alex's new senior tactical officer sat sipping coffee, occasionally trying to engage the officer sitting next to him in conversation. Having read his file did not stop her from being shocked at his stature. While Commander Michael Fain might be only a few centimeters taller and a few kilos heavier than she, he did not have the look of a teenager that she possessed. Three years her junior, he could easily pass for fifteen years her senior. Stark white hair and a deeply lined, gaunt face made him appear fragile until Alex saw the glint in his eyes.

  Normally Alex did not put too much stock in file facts. Too many officers, in her opinion, were sycophants and ass-kissers and had received their excellent fitness reports because of these skills rather than for a more-than-adequate performance of their duties.

  Looking into Commander Fain's eyes, she did not doubt the veracity of his file when it noted him as being a devilishly effective tactical officer. Alex could not put her finger on it, but despite his appearance, something about the man screamed predator.

  The target of Commander Fain's attempt at conversation was a powerfully built lieutenant junior grade. His dark skin only a few shades lighter than the uniform jacket he wore, Emanuel Green possessed the same laconic attitude he had aboard the Fenris, but the haunted look was new. Happy that her recommendation for his early promotion was approved, Alex knew that he deserved it, and more. She had taken him into battles before, but never into a bloodbath like the one they had barely survived. He had performed admirably, and while he wore the expression of someone who had seen too much in a short period of time, the set of his jaw clearly showed that his animosity toward the Xan-Sskarns had grown exponentially. The hate radiating from him was almost a physical thing, and Alex felt concerned that it might slip from a dedicated focus to a dangerous obsession. But then, she did not have room to talk when it came to obsessions.

  Compared to Green, the man seated beside him seemed to be a nonentity. Alex's new senior medical officer, Commander John Stratis, sat chatting with the officer seated across from him, twirling the stylus of his pad idly in his fingers. From what she had read of his file, he did not seem to be the kind of man who put much stock in military decorum, and his present mode of dress attested to that. With a white dress shirt, open at the collar, under a white medical lab coat, he seemed oblivious to the fact that he stood out. He did not even have any rank or rating tabs on his abbreviated uniform; the only badge that he did wear was the symbol of his profession, a caduceus, embroidered in red on the chest pocket of his coat. Taking a closer look at him, Alex saw a man who appeared to avoid the gym until just prior to his annual PFT. His thinning long, plain brown hair, shot though with gray, was slicked back, and he sported anachronistic eyeglasses behind which muddy brown eyes resided—he appeared to be nothing more than a dumpy, middle-aged man. His complexion, still darkly tanned, told her that he had just come from a dirtside command. Alex's eyes, drawn once again to the stylus dancing in nimble fingers, came to the conclusion that this man spent more time practicing his profession than practicing being a naval officer. Having never been under his care, she couldn't attest to his competency as a doctor or as a surgeon, but she hoped for the sake of her crew, and for his as well, that he was as good as his record indicated.

  Alex had sent more than one incompetent medical officer packing with a fitness report almost guaranteed to get them dismissed from the medical field, let alone the navy. She would have felt more comfortable with Dr. Swartz remaining on as her SMO. The good doctor, however, refused to have her patients from the Fenris under anyone else's care but her own. Which is where Dr. Stratis and his unknown level of competency came in; only time would allow him to show his worth, and they did not have much time.

  Dr. Stratis' conversation partner was the Valhalla's communications officer, Lieutenant Commander Lea Albers. One hundred sixty-five centimeters tall and weighing in at sixty-six kilos, with chin-length hair and hazel eyes, Lea looked like nothing more than an average woman with a stocky build and a long face. Slightly bucked teeth and heavily lidded eyes, along with her stature, gave the impression of a slow, unimaginative person. That is, until one listened to the constant flow of speech she seemed unable to contain. Her appearance fell away in the listener's mind, and the image was replaced with a highly intelligent, well-spoken, professional officer.

  From what Alex could see, Lea could maintain several fast-paced conversations simultaneously and knew exactly where she was in each at any given moment. Lea's record, stating that she was a preeminent communications specialist, with an innate ability to find and track any type of signal, was another that Alex
would take with a grain of salt until she could form her own opinion. Though she did not have a problem believing the section in her new comm officer's bio that the woman had a tendency to maintain a running dialog with anyone within earshot. Alex grinned at that, thinking that Lea and Greg would get along swimmingly, until, with a pang of regret she remembered that Greg was still dirtside, confined to a critical-care unit. Her smile vanished in an instant. Maybe it was a good thing Doc Swartz was staying behind.

  Another officer whom Lea had engaged in conversation—a separate conversation, Alex noted—was a tall blond officer with intent gray eyes. Jeffrey Tucholski, chief navigation officer, tried to get a word in edgewise but seemed to be limited to short, very short, answers or statements. He looked as if he didn't mind the situation, and Alex guessed that the lieutenant commander had served with Albers before and was used to it. Closing her eyes for a moment, Alex reviewed his fitness reports in her head, just as she had done for all the other new faces around the table. Of all the evals she had read on her new command staff, Tucholski's was by far the easiest for Alex to believe. Even more so than Commander Fain's. Average officer, not overly assertive or imaginative, content to let others take the lead, unimposing. In short, the perfect mathematician. Which, for all intents and purposes, was the job definition of a navigation officer. Alex recalled his academy math scores, and the attached solutions to several extremely difficult navigational exercises he had faced throughout his career; they were all within the top zero point five percentile. Hard evidence proving his competency. She only wished it were possible to provide such evidence for all officers.