Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  “Mudhen zero two seven,” the controller said over Tommy’s comm gear.

  Tommy looked over at the elevated structure that housed the controller, who was seated behind large clear windows, and noticed a small crowd of students that had gathered in shaded seats at the base of the tower, all positioned well behind the barrier.

  “Mudhen zero two seven,” Tommy said with a practiced slow draw.

  “Zero two seven, you are cleared alpha, proceed tango four, on the green.”

  Before Tommy could respond, the controller was on to the next pilot—er, driver. Tommy looked to his right at the wide yellow illuminated strip labeled Alpha. All he had to do was move the stick a little to the right. Tommy’s left thruster fired and sent him sliding over and past the yellow line by almost seven feet.

  Okay, just a little left… Adding a little left stick, Tommy sailed back over his pad and bounced off the barrier, which did two things. It yanked the nose of his trainer to the right—no longer parallel with Alpha, and it gave him a great view of Gray using an Alterian’s car to slow down.

  He was sure, watching the Alterian’s Device 11 spin across several pads before slamming into another student, that it had not been intentional on Gary’s part.

  Now just focus. It’s a little more sensitive than the sims, he thought and applied just the slightest bit of a left twist to the control grip.

  That’s it, he thought, slowly moving back to a position even with the Alpha taxi line.

  “Zero two seven, cleared alpha, to tango four.” The controller repeated his instructions, no doubt part of a training plan to further frustrate the students.

  Tommy did not immediately answer, as he was recovering from the sight of a Device 11 whizzing by at a speed he did not think possible of the little hovering car.

  “Zero two seven, do you copy?”

  Tommy finally keyed his mic button but paused to brace himself for the impact of another runaway bumper car—SMASH!

  Tommy’s training device spun and collided with yet another would-be pilot, wedging them both against the barrier. “Mudhen zero two seven copy,” he finally said in disgust while trying to ignore the belly laughs of the gathered bystanders, all very happy to be safely behind the protection of the electronic shielding.

  For the next two hours, the students of training squadron 1205 bounced, spun, and slid out of control forward, backward, and sideways. Collisions were often and many times violent—so much so that more than once Tommy had tightened his harness, the same straps that at the start of this fiasco he doubted even needing.

  But by the end of that first training period they were better. A few more sessions, and spectators in search of comic relief stopped showing up. Finally, after more than two weeks, the Mudhens could handle the Device 11 like an old pro.

  We’re ready to go flying, Tommy thought, climbing out of a bumper car for hopefully the last time.

  Well, ready or not, Mr. Kanoop agreed, and the Hens were soon scheduled for their very first flights.

  The PT-207 Firefly was designed, based on a rather broad Imperial requirement, to provide standardized entry-level flight training for a wide range of future pilots. Star Force at first had resisted any effort that would relax or in any way compromise their qualification efforts. They could not, and would not, alter a flight syllabus that had been developed over a hundred years to both screen and prepare officers for the rigors and demands of space flight. That being said, the political powers, based on the rising cost associated with training pilots and also, maybe most importantly, a deep-seated desire to regulate the certification process of commands from every system in the Empire, had decided on the development of the Firefly. The initial design, along with a complete package of training aids, had taken almost seven standard years to develop, but eventually the first aircraft reached the fleet, with full operational status achieved in 6915-06.

  The Firefly is a straightforward design built around the tried-and-tested Genson TJ-16709 max-flow turbojet engine and a state-of-the art lightweight Landerflow graviton generator, with dual redundant power supplies. This reliable little trainer has by far the best safety record, based on flight hours, of any single engine aircraft in the Empire. Of course, this may be a direct result of the jet not having a requirement to fly into space. But nevertheless, although production has slowed, continued upgrades and modifications on the PT-207 should keep the Firefly on active service, training the best pilots in the galaxy for many years to come.

  - The Book of Imperial Starships -

  CHAPTER TEN

  Solo

  Tommy stepped through the hatch of the squadron’s hanger bay, into the relative coolness of a Razeier early morning, and began walking toward his assigned aircraft, helmet bag in hand. In spite of the required oh-dark-thirty briefing, he loved these early hops. There was a rare calmness to the Slate this time of day, along with just a hint of a breeze, both of which, he knew, would soon vanish under the relentless pressure of the day’s training schedule and the fierceness of Razeier’s sun.

  Not that there wasn’t still plenty of activity. Many of the Bugs were surrounded by mechbots and ground crew personnel preparing the trainers for the day’s activities. But it was quiet work, and without the whine of turbojets or the frenzied pace of flight operations, one could hear the flapping of remove-before-flight flags, the occasional sound of a tool being dropped, and laughter as ground personnel exaggerated the events of their previous night’s exploits.

  “Good morning, sir,” Tommy’s crew chief said, looking up from his datapad, apparently in the middle of an exchange of electronic information with a hovering mechbot. His face, partially covered by large dark glasses, was baked brown by long hours spent in the sun.

  “Morning.” Tommy nodded and stopped to admire his jet.

  Most would not consider the PT-207 to be an attractive aircraft. Its bulbous nose and long thin fuselage, perched on three squat landing skids, gave it an appearance that more resembled that of a tadpole than a modern sleek flight trainer. But in the last two weeks Tommy had accumulated almost fourteen hours in the Bug, and in that time he had grown to more than admire its functionality—a trait personified by its sharply angled cockpit, covered by a single, clear steel bubble canopy that extended past the pilot’s knees, and afforded an almost unobstructed view for both instructor and student. The side-by-side seating provided for a much more personalized approach to instruction, a feature that no doubt saved a lot of lives in the early going. And yes, Tommy had to admit, tightening the straps of his integrated harness before stepping into the cockpit, that even the Bug’s odd drooped looks had grown on him. The Firefly was really quite beautiful in its own way. It was, after all, a jet, and he had learned to love her.

  “How’s she looking, chief?” Tommy’s primary instructor, First Lieutenant Pascelle, asked as he walked up to the bird.

  The middle-aged, weather-beaten alien had just commanded the retraction of the last of the service lines, and he, along with a mechbot, had positioned himself to assist in the startup and launch activities.

  “Looks real good, Lieutenant. How’s your boy?” The chief gave a knowing smile.

  “We’ll find out here pretty soon, chief,” Pascelle said, moving around the Bug’s tapered nose.

  Tommy was just finishing up with his harness when his instructor leaned into the right side of the open cockpit and rested his hand on the empty ejection seat. “How you feeling today, Thorn?” he asked.

  “Fine, sir, ready to go,” Tommy said, pushing his helmet down over his ears.

  “Good,” the instructor replied and looked up at the clear morning sky.

  Tommy continued with the cockpit configuration, expecting the lieutenant to side into the seat next to him, but after several more minutes…

  “Sir?” Tommy looked up from the jet’s acrylic panel at his instructor, who had straightened, his hand now propped against the opened canopy.

  “You’re going up alone today, Mr. Thorn,” t
he lieutenant said without looking into the cockpit.

  Tommy’s heart rate instantly jumped. Bo and Gary had already soloed, and he had known it would be his turn soon—after all, he was ready, wasn’t he?

  After allowing Tommy a moment, the instructor looked directly at him. “You’re good to go, Thorn. Just remember—one circuit and one approach, then right back to the pad.”

  Tommy tried to act casual. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be right here—waiting,” Pascelle said with a reassuring smile.

  Tommy nodded and watched his instructor walk over to the crew chief. They both flashed broad grins.

  “You’ve waited a long time for this, Tommy. Don’t screw it up,” he said to himself. Then, taking a deep breath, he closed the canopy.

  The canopy sealed with a low hiss, allowing the Bug’s internal systems to kick into operation and release a welcomed surge of cold air as the onboard computer barked, “Standing by for engine start.”

  The statement startled Tommy, though he had heard it dozens of times.

  “Come on, Tommy, get a grip,” he said into the soft plastic oxygen mask and toggled the engine start symbol.

  As the Firefly was a trainer, the onboard computer would not automatically activate any of the aircraft’s systems. However, it would assist in checklist, voice-commanded navigation functions and aid with aircraft avoidance protocols. After all, without an instructor, Tommy would be down to only one set of eyes, and the skies around the Slate were full of distracted students.

  In spite of some initial nerves, Tommy soon fell into a practiced pattern of movements and radio calls. Internal lights flickered, advisories flashed across his helmet’s visor, and heads-down instrumentation confirmed the up status of the Bug even as the cockpit began to reverberate with the reassuring sounds of the max-flow turbojet spooling to life.

  Satisfied and suddenly ready to take on the world, Tommy flashed the “ready to hover” signal to his chief, waited for an acknowledgement, then snapped up the skids and moved off to the transition strip, where he made final checks before calling the tower.

  “Tower from Mudhen zero three—solo for takeoff,” Tommy said and released the mic button on his throttle. He was required to announce his status as a first-time solo, alerting the tower and all other pilots on this frequency of the need for special care and avoidance.

  “Mudhen zero three, follow Saber Hawk flight of two, cleared to takeoff left. Contact departure control when airborne,” the tower quickly responded.

  After confirming the movement of the stubby wing panels, he keyed the mic. “Mudhen zero three solo, cleared to takeoff—left, contact departure when airborne.”

  Tommy looked to his right, past the empty seat that reminded him that he was indeed alone, and watched a pair of Lancer advanced trainers hover past. The instructor in the back seat of the trailing spacecraft looked over at Tommy and nodded as they pulled onto the already heat-soaked strip ahead of him.

  That simple nod had somehow made him feel even better, like he did indeed belong. And so, with a smile, although he felt like laughing, Tommy pushed and twisted the control stick to line up the Bug on the green illuminated stripe that ran the length of the eight-hundred-foot-long ribbon of duracreate, and brought his ship to a stop.

  The enormity of this event was not lost on Tommy, and he took a couple of heartbeats to reflect on all he had done and gone through to get to this moment. No matter what, Tommy, you got here. Now don’t screw it up, he thought and sucked another deep breath of oxygen through his mask before selecting the trainer’s flight mode.

  Okay, he thought and pushed the throttle full forward, just as he had done so many times in the past, but now it was only him, success or failure, life or death—only him. The Bug leaped forward and climbed quickly to three thousand feet. Tommy then eased the stick forward and pulled back, just a bit, on the power. Your flying Tommy ol’ boy—you’re really flying, he thought and took a moment to gather himself before keying the mic.

  “Departure from Mudhen zero three solo, airborne at three thousand,” Tommy casually reported as though he’d made such calls a thousand times. The Bug tracked along like it was on rails, no buffet, no vibrations. Smooth as silk, he thought while scanning the basic flight instruments displayed on his helmet’s visor.

  “Copy Mudhen zero three, have a good one.”

  Tommy once again smiled behind his mask. “Mudhen zero three solo, roger that.”

  Almost thirty minutes later, Tommy had his aircraft back in a stable hover over the landing pad and was dialing back the graviton setting—ten percent, twenty percent—the Bug gingerly came to rest, its full weight compressing the extended landing skids.

  And indeed, the flight had been a good one. In fact, it was flawless. At least that was the impression Tommy had; the engine still spooling down when he was greeted by Gary and Bo, both eager to congratulate him.

  “Great job!,” Bo shouted, sticking her head into the cockpit.

  Tommy had lowered his mask and was grinning broadly, the weight of the world, for now, off his shoulders.

  “Thanks, Bo,” he said.

  And now Gary was there, reaching into the cockpit to snatch Tommy’s collar tab. “One more for the club,” he shouted over a passing Firefly. “Bout time!”

  Traditionally, all pilots would stick their collar tab on the wall or ceiling of the officers’ club after a successful solo. Tommy was now part of a very exclusive club.

  “Come on, get out of that gear—we’ve got some celebrating to do,” Bo said.

  Already unstrapped, Tommy was in the process of climbing out of the ship, when he was congratulated by Lieutenant Pascelle.

  “Nice job, Mr. Thorn,” he said, then turned to Tommy’s friends. “You two go ahead. I need a quick debrief with Tommy,”

  Both nodded. Gary gave Tommy another slap on the shoulder, and Bo gave him a quick hug before they started off toward the squadron hanger, dodging mechbots, ground crew, and Bugs as they went.

  Tommy pulled off his helmet, bent over, and loosened his black harness while keeping eye contact with Pascelle.

  The normally soft-spoken Warrior Corps officer stayed true to form. “Tommy, did you ever wonder why I waited so long to cut you lose?”

  “I was starting to get a bit concerned, sir,” Tommy said, standing upright and stuffing his helmet into its bag.

  In spite of the fact that Tommy was at the top of the class in both flight and academic scores, Bo and Gary had both soloed a week earlier. In fact, he was one of the last of his class to go up alone.

  “Well done, Mr. Thorn,” the crew chief said, already getting the aircraft checked and configured for the next student.

  Tommy nodded and refocused on Pascelle.

  “You’re a natural stick, Tommy. I know it—hell the whole class knows it, everyone it seems, but you…”

  Tommy looked puzzled.

  “You seemed hesitant up there, sometimes afraid,” the lieutenant continued.

  Now Tommy was not only confused, but hurt, and glad his instructor could not see his eyes behind a pair of large dark glasses.

  Pascelle quickly continued, “Don’t get me wrong, you’re not afraid to fly—it’s a fear of screwing up that you had to shake.”

  Tommy nodded. He had not wanted to blow this opportunity, that much was true. Maybe there was fear—a fear that he would fail when so many had faith in him.

  “You’re going to do fine, Tommy. You’re maybe the best student I’ve ever had. You just need to let go and fly.” Pascelle put his arm around Tommy’s shoulder as the two started toward the hanger.

  He felt better, relieved, and was thankful Pascelle had taken an interest in him, but there was no doubt in his mind now. I’m going to make it, he thought as the two made their way across the ramp.

  “I believe drinks are on you, ensign,” Pascelle said with a big smile.

  Tommy did not try to shout over the high-pitched shrill of a passing Bug, but only grinned and
nodded his head in agreement.

  That night at the club was the last time Tommy ever spoke with the handsome young Volarian. Three days later, one of his students panicked on a high-speed, low-level training hop and slammed the Bug into an outcrop of jagged red-brown rock. Tommy could see the black smudge and circle of burnt ground that marked the impact, as he coasted three hundred feet above the crash site. Such a lonely, dirty place to die, he thought.

  Tommy had never feared death. On the contrary, it was life that he feared, or rather a life unfulfilled. Lieutenant Pascelle had been flying when his life had ended. Flying was something the Warrior Corps lieutenant had wanted very badly and had worked hard to achieved. And so, while saddened at the loss, Tommy could not bring himself to think of that death, although tragic, as a waste. Everyone dies, he thought and waggled the Firefly’s stubby wings as if to acknowledge the triumphant passing of his departed squadron mate.

  Over the next month, the Mudhens continued to progress through the training syllabus. Tommy, like all students, usually flew twice a day, becoming more proficient with every flight. They learned to fly in formation, just two ships at first, but quickly mastered formation flights of twelve or more Bugs. There were night flights, unusual altitude recovery, instrument flights, flown without any outside references, and navigation hops that included stops at other training bases on Razeier. Not only was Razeier home to the Slate, but its isolation and fair weather made it a perfect location for a number of different advanced schools, especially those that required vast uninhabited ranges suitable for weapon delivery. Two things you could always count on at the Slate: isolation and the weather. It was clear, dry, and hot—well most of the time…

  Twice a year, for a two-week period, the heavens above the Slate opened up and rain fell in great sheets, turning the parched earth around the base into a quagmire and grounding all primary flight training. For two weeks, nobody ventured into the dark gray, electrically charged storm clouds and swirling high winds. That was the bad news. The good news was, with the base shut down, everyone got planet leave, two weeks away from the Slate.