by PJ Strebor
Stepping forward, she offered her hand. “Rowena Valetta, 2IC, 26th fighter squadron. Call sign, Dash.”
“Nathan Telford, grommit. Awaiting call sign.”
Rowena returned his smile warmly. “Are you settled in all right?”
“You bet.”
She checked the top bunk. “Have you seen your roomie today?”
He shook his head.
The hatch slid aside. On a vessel as small as a monitor, it was considered poor form to enter anyone’s quarters without first buzzing.
An enormous young man somehow managed to squeeze his broad frame through the hatch. Within the confines of the small room, he reminded Nathan of a cartoon gorilla jammed into a bird cage. Still clad in his Class A uniform, he eyed the two officers with apprehension before a wicked smile spread across his broad mouth.
“Oops, sorry. I guess I should have buzzed first. Would you like me to leave while you two…” —another idiotic grin— “finish up?”
“You would be Ensign Whitney, then?” Rowena’s tone hardened.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m the new hotshot from Southern Quadrant.” From his fondness at grinning at his own remarks, he apparently considered himself to be quite the wit. Nathan sighed inwardly. He would be sharing quarters with this … fellow for the next three months.
“You’re late.” Rowena did not appear to put a dent in his self-appreciation.
A huge bear of a lad, Whitney had thick blond hair, blue eyes and an irrepressible fondness for himself. Although he was about the same age as Nathan, something about him caused the hairs on Nathan’s neck stand to attention.
“The FOO has called a pilots’ briefing,” Rowena said. “You don’t have time to square your rig away or change, so you had better come as you are.”
He stood in place without moving either his large body or the idiot grin. Nathan saw the back of Rowena’s neck prickle.
“Ensign,” she began in a measured tone, “we cannot leave until you shift your great lump of a body out of the hatch.”
Finally he got the point and used the manual override to open the hatch. While he squeezed through the hatch, Rowena rolled her eyes.
“So what’s the briefing with the FOO about?” Whitney asked.
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to explain it to you,” she said.
Whitney grinned as if her words were a joke. “Aye-aye, Ma’am.”
She beckoned Whitney to lead the way.
Oh, shit.
CHAPTER 17
Date: 6th February, 322 ASC.
Position: Approaching orbit. Planet Thebes.
Lieutenant Commander Esther Chappell, call sign “Boss”, glanced out the port view plate of her combat sphere and sighed. The grommit had strayed out of formation again. “Outrider Four, tuck it in,” she growled. “You aren’t on picket duty now, Whitney, this is an operational squadron.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Whitney promptly edged his fighter into the tight formation.
Glancing to starboard, she confirmed Outrider Five’s position, glued to “Dash” Valetta’s dorsal wing. At least one of her grommits could fly formation.
In a very short time she had discovered that Ensign Garrison Whitney did not possess a gram of outward self-doubt. Within the community of flyers, such blessedly rare individuals were known as a NAFOD. A pilot with No Apparent Fear of Death. The moment he stepped into the pilot briefing room, clad in his dress uniform, the Alert Condition One alarm sounded in Chappell’s mind. Another snotty-nosed kid who thought he was God’s gift to Monitor Corps, simply because he had passed through fighter training school with a reasonable rating. Although he had two years of colonial picket work behind him, that experience would in no way prepare him for a patrol out to the edge of League space.
During the pilot briefing, her experienced pilots had contemplated the overhead as Whitney expounded his great expertise.
“Twenty-sixth in my graduating year, Commander,” he said, with his enormous chest puffed out with self-pride. “Pretty good going for a man from the backwoods of Nea Kalkidon.”
Dash’s expression said she recognized blarney when she heard it. A damn good pilot, Dash. Pity she was a tourist. Once she qualified for command pilot status, she would not see the inside of a fighter’s combat sphere again. Yes, one day she would get herself a monitor of her own. Lucky girl.
Lieutenant (JG) Jay Chai, call sign “Bird”, did not have the sort of attitude that lent itself well to sorting out Whitney’s type of problem child. Put him in a fighter and aim him at an enemy, and the usually placid young man turned into a killing machine.
Throughout Whitney’s discourse, Telford had sat without moving or speaking. Only his eyes roamed the room. A hunter surveying new terrain. A slight tic at the corner of his mouth indicated he had smelled a whiff of Whitney’s bullshit.
“I truly believe I can be a great asset to Monitor Corps,” Whitney droned on. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I became the youngest FOO in the history of the Corps.”
Whitney’s attitude did not sit well with Chappell. For the time being, she knew all she needed to know about one of her grommits. The other became more enigmatic by the minute.
Chappell had seen academy graduates who had passed through FTS before. On only one occasion had she served with a Metier graduate. Academy types were self-assured to the point of arrogance. The much-vaunted Metier graduates — who, in fairness, were the best-trained potential boat jockeys in the Corps — made the regular academy types seem humble. Although they never acted in Whitney’s childish manner, they carried themselves with a self-assurance that ran along the razor between insanity and cold blooded pragmatism. They knew they were the best and didn’t need to prove it to anyone.
She occasionally paused to wonder if her irritation might be based on her own far different background. After years of fighting her way into the Corps, time and again Chappell had been passed over for promotion because of the unfair prejudice granted to those who wore the academy ring. Through all of the injustice she had persevered, trained and studied to add to her list of qualifications. She spent her leave time doing additional courses to improve her chances. In effect, she had married the Corps.
Her mind returned to the briefing room as Whitney finally paused to take a breath. Chappell jumped at the opportunity. “Ensign Telford, is there anything you would care to say?”
His neutral expression took on a token of animation as he shrugged. “I’m glad to be here, Boss. I hope to learn a lot during the deployment.” A wry smile creased the left side of his face. “Perhaps I could get some flying tips from Whitney. He seems to know a lot ... according to him.”
The other pilots chortled, and despite herself, Chappell smiled.
“Ha! Ha! You are so funny, Telford,” Whitney said.
Chappell had also examined Telford’s file and his actions spoke much more than his words. It told of an iron will wrapped in a soft coating of Thessaly chocolate. His conduct while serving on Truculent showed he had heart and smarts. However, in the aftermath, it also showed a pretty-boy show pony with a fondness for the news nets.
The squadron passed through orbit and into open space. Chappell had six hours before Insolent arrived and brought them aboard. She intended to put the time to good use.
“Outrider flight — FOO. Bird, take Outrider Four for evaluation. Dash, you’ve got Outrider Five. Any questions?”
“When do I get a call sign, Commander?” Whitney said. “I am flight-certified.”
“Telford, tell him when he’s going to get a call sign,” she said.
“When you’re good and bloody ready to give him one, Boss.”
Chappell grinned. She did not, however, allow the grin to seep into her voice. “Very well, ladies and gentlemen, do some good.”
***
“So what do you think, Bird?” Chappell asked.
Jay took a sip from his coffee mug, then leaned back in his chair. Six hours of intense evaluation had left the pilots fatigu
ed. With the boat underway and blue watch half completed, the three of them had the wardroom to themselves.
“If Whitney’s ego was any bigger, it would have its own orbital path.” The officers chuckled yet knew full well how quickly a bad attitude could get a pilot killed. “I don’t like to say it, Boss, but he’s not bad. He has a lot to learn, but his basic skills are sound.”
Chappell nodded slowly. “Dash?”
“Telford is exceptional,” she said. “I’m not just talking about him winning the Ellison trophy. He has a natural instinct for flying I wish I had during my first deployment. Telford could actually be the real deal. You know, what they used to call a natural stick and rudder pilot.”
“That good?” Chappell found it hard to keep the surprise from her voice. Dash had never given a pilot such a wrap.
“He needs seasoning, to be sure, but I think we’ve got a live one here.”
“Hmm,” Chappell said noncommittally.
“Better be good to him, Boss.” Dash smiled mischievously. “You’ll probably be working for him one day.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“How did he trap aboard?” Dash asked.
“Right on the center line and picked up the third wire,” Chappell said. She should be pleased that one of her new pilots showed competence.
“And wonder boy Whitney?” Bird asked.
“Slightly off center and picked up the number two wire.”
“Hmm, room for improvement, then,” Bird said.
The pilots chatted for a few minutes about the coming mission. The hatch slipped open and Telford stepped over the coaming. He stopped halfway inside the room.
“Is this a bad time, Boss?”
Yes, quick, very quick.
Dash sported a lazy smile. “We stopped talking about you ages ago.”
“Great,” Telford said, making his way to the coffee urn.
The boat’s cook made an appearance. “Hey, Mister Telford, can I get you anything?”
“No thanks, Cookie. I’ll wait till main meal for you to poison me.”
“Only the best of my poison for officers.” He winked, then turned away.
The three pilots continued their conversation, but their attention wandered irresistibly to the simple act of coffee preparation and Nathan’s choice of condiments. Pilots took their coffee black, almost by virtue of an unwritten dictum. Telford placed four satchels of sugar and a large glob of cream into his mug. He turned from the bench, catching three curious expressions focused on his activity.
His forehead creased for a moment, then he glanced at his mug and back at the pilots.
“My foster-father owns a coffee plantation on Kastoria.” He shrugged and smiled sheepishly.
A muttering of understanding ended their fascination with the subject. Anyone raised on a world that produced the finest coffee in the League of Allied Worlds would find the standard-issue Corps coffee in need of attention. Nathan joined them and sipped his coffee, wincing minutely.
“How was your first day?” Chappell’s curiosity got the better of her.
He smiled. “Lieutenant Valetta showed me—”
“Hey.” She pointed at her chest. “Dash.”
“My first day. Hmm.” A tight smile stretched his lips. “Fighter training is one thing, but service aboard an operational MEB is something else. In a few hours, Dash showed me some moves you can only learn from experience.” He sat back and sighed. “It’s a whole new adventure.”
“Not your first adventure,” Jay offered.
Nathan’s forehead creased.
“I think Bird is talking about your time on Truculent,” Dash said.
His jaw tightened. “That was anything but an adventure.”
“According to the news nets,” Chappell said, “you acquitted yourself well.”
A sardonic grunt. “If you believe the nets, I single-handedly stormed onto the Picaroon, massacred a couple of hundred of those dastardly headhunters, rescued every one of the captives, then moseyed home, while patting myself on the shoulder.”
Everyone chuckled. Chappell needed more.
“The nets tout you as the hero of the Genevieve Incident. You did a lot of interviews, at the time.”
His eyebrows locked together. “I hated every one of them. But Commodore — pardon me — Admiral Waugh told me if I tried to avoid them, it would create a feeding frenzy. I didn’t want those leeches getting anywhere near my family, so I took her advice. There were more than thirty of us on Picaroon, not just me. That’s what I told them, but they reported a completely different story. Lying bastards.”
Chappell smiled inwardly.
“Not a fan of the media, then?” Bird asked.
“I get more honesty and common sense from a Gary Larson cartoon.”
“Who?”
“Gary Larson.” Blank stares. “A twentieth-century, old Earth cartoonist. Come on, you guys haven’t read Larson?”
Shaking heads.
“I’ll pop some into the boat’s data base. They’re insightful and hilarious.”
“I’ll check it out. Oh, by the way, how are you settling in with your roomie?” Dash teased.
“It’s not so bad.” He smiled ruefully. “I can only hope he doesn’t talk in his sleep.”
CHAPTER 18
Date: 12th February, 322 ASC.
Position: Monitor Insolent, anchored in space, twenty light years outside the border of Athenian space (Eastern Quadrant).
Status: Silent running.
Marine Special Forces Corporal Carmen Carpov stood perfectly still. Sweat ran beneath her padded fighting suit. As with her opponent, she gave no outward indication of her impending exhaustion.
At its heart, Aikido was an exercise in the art of patience. The one who waited patiently for the small opening usually won the bout. Her opponent shared this view and over the last six days had proven to be far more patient than she.
Carpov would never admit that Nathan Telford had become a better exponent of martial arts than she. He compensated for his relative lack of experience by applying the patience of Job, together with the speed of a Corinthian cheetah.
Peripherally, she noticed Lieutenant Morrella standing next to the FOO. Both parties had keenly observed the bouts between Nathan and herself. Carpov suspected money had changed hands, based on the outcome of each bout.
She carried, on her shoulders, the honor of all Spartans. Carpov moved in on Nathan slowly, circling the fighting area, seeking weakness in his defense. He emulated her every action.
Finally her patience wilted and she attacked. He backed away before her onrushing attack, then stopped suddenly, pulled away to the side and caught her in the chest with a deathly fast side kick. It spun her off balance and he came at her. Toe to toe, they traded blows until she caught him in the abdomen and he backed off. She pounced on her opportunity, kicked high, hitting his padded helmet, then dropped low and swept his feet from under him with a vicious roundhouse kick. When he struck the deck, she came in to deliver the coup de grace. Faster than she could see, he struck out at her exposed calf, and while she reeled from the blow he swept her legs from under her. Nathan did this while lying flat on the deck.
Carpov hit the deck with a bruising thud, gasping as the air was forced from her lungs. Rolling away quickly to avoid being struck again, she leapt to her feet, while taking shallow breaths. Nathan sat on the deck. His legs were crossed, his hands rested in his lap and a grin decorated his face. The infectious expression soon turned into a chuckle. Dragging himself to his feet, he offered his hand. They finished the bout with the traditional bow.
“That was a damn good sweep, CC,” Nathan said.
“Likewise, Ensign.”
Off duty, he was Nathan; on duty, the proprieties had to be observed. Carpov, as with most Spartans, had little time for swabbie officers. They sat in their precious monitors and sent the marines out to do their dirty work.
“Ready to go again?” Carpov offered.
&nb
sp; “I’d love to, CC, but I’ve got a TFI exercise in an hour. Maybe tomorrow?”
“You know where to find me.”
Nathan slapped her on the shoulder and left. They were same age and around the same height and build, but the similarities ended there. He was a pilot, and from all accounts a good one.
He showed a determination to learn all he could about everything that happened on board a monitor, including matching it with the marines. Mighty odd behavior. Still, as far as swabbies went, he was all right. What a damn pity he was an officer — and married.
CHAPTER 19
Date: 12th February, 322 ASC.
Position: Monitor Insolent, anchored in space, twenty light years from the border of Athenian space (Eastern Quadrant).
Status: Silent running. TFI exercise.
With all emissions tuned down, Insolent had become all but invisible to the rest of the universe.
During this state of virtual stand down, the FOO further evaluated the grommits’ performance, running them through regular TFI exercises. Simulated dog-fighting. Whitney kept getting splashed, but appeared to be incapable of learning from his mistakes. Chappell suspected that behind the bravado dwelt a child, too scared to admit a mistake and too insecure to either ask questions or listen to advice. How the hell had he been deemed extraordinary enough to be assigned to an operational boat?
Nathan Telford could not be more opposite. Unlike Whitney, Nathan asked questions, continuous questions, and learned from his mistakes.
During the exercises he had not only held his own against Dash and Bird, but recorded kills against each of them. A grommit should not be capable of defeating seasoned pilots. On the other side of the slate, he had been killed three times and had forced one stalemate. He had gone up against Whitney twice. Each time, Nathan caught him napping and splashed him with ease. This did nothing to improve Whitney’s overall attitude.
With each passing day Nathan continued to improve, but he appeared to be baffled by his newfound status.