Stars Fell on Alabama

by M. Alan Marr

  The FAC officer looks at the readings. “Admiral, sir, it appears Commander Chaz overflew the docking pad, broke off sharply, and began an elongated box pattern to bring the ship back around on a decelerating final approach vector, sir.”

  Crossing the tarmac, Chaz sees the landing pad is coming up. “Any advice on landing?”

  “Yeah,” Dev says, “don’t crash.”

  Chaz gives Dev the briefest of glances, then raises the nose up slightly to further bleed off his forward momentum.

  “Extend landing struts,” Dev orders.

  Chaz presses the landing gear button with his middle finger. The button lights up yellow, then turns green once the landing struts are locked in place. Chaz feels the drag created by the landing gear and adjusts his power accordingly. The azimuth around the ship reappears. Nearly over the pad, Chaz gently adds the slightest touch of reverse thrust and simultaneously rolls off the gravitation field. The training ship touches down onto the pad for a pretty decent first landing. Chaz doesn’t realize it, but he broke into a sweat during the flight. He lets out a deep breath as if he had been holding it the entire time. They are down safely. Chaz looks at Dev, wearing a somewhat smug expression. “What’s next, sir?”

  Dev smiles. “Roll the throttle grips into the aft detent and confirm Grav-Lock.”

  Chaz does as instructed. The ship vibrates for a moment and then suddenly feels absolutely secure to the ground. The status screen confirms it. “Grav-Lock,” Chaz says. “Next?”

  “I’ll guide you through the shutdown procedure.”

  Every officer in the Admiralty briefing room is silent.

  The Admiral looks at his Field Marshal. “That was an Earth resident.”

  “Admiral,” the Field Marshal replies, “if I didn’t see it, I would never have believed it.”

  The Admiral references the tracking and telemetry profile of the trainer from orbit to touchdown. “He did better than most of our own Flight Candidates.”

  “No doubt Earth’s atmospheric transports are complex machines,” the Field Marshal replies. She watches the screen as Chaz secures the trainer’s power systems. The Field Marshal shakes her head slightly and adds, “This bold idea of theirs . . . may actually work.”

  Dev and Chaz exit the trainer and walk away as it recesses down into its berth. The metallic wedges in the floor open up, and the trainer lowers completely out of sight. The wedges close, and the visual systems in the simulation bay power down from three dimensions, to the convex and then fade completely, leaving them in an empty spheroid room. Chaz is absolutely energized.

  “That was incredible!”

  “Well done, Commander,” Dev compliments.

  “Woo-hoo!”

  Dev looks slantways for a moment and whispers, “They’re still watching.”

  Chaz quickly composes himself. “Yes, sir.” He contains himself for exactly two seconds, and then breaks out in excitement again. “I love that ship!” And he punches the air a few times and grabs Dev’s shoulders and shakes him.

  Dev laughs, shaking his head, and puts his hand on Chaz’s back. “Come on, Earth man.”

  As they walk out of the simulation bay, the power to the room shuts down completely.

  ADMIRALTY

  FLEET COMBAT CETNER BRIEFING ROOM

  During the time it took for Dev and Chaz to change out of their flight suits, clean up, dress, and return to the Fleet Combat Center, the Admiral and his staff debated the proposal. A great number of opinions (and concerns) were voiced. Additional personnel were brought into the discussion. The briefing room is now much more crowded with ancillary staff and other officers, including representatives from the Training Command (on the screen), Fleet Intelligence, and even a bevy of other Admirals, Field Marshals, and members of their staffs.

  Dev and Chaz reenter the room and are surprised at the number of people—the number of very high-ranking people—now present. Instinctively, they both stop. Dev quickly stands at attention, with Chaz just a fraction of a second behind on the follow-through. It seems odd to Chaz that the table is still occupied by staff while numerous Flag Officers are standing about. The Flight Admiral, standing with the group of his peers, does not waste time and does not mince words.

  “Commander Dev,” the Admiral says as he approaches, “I hereby approve your request to establish a defensive position on Earth. I have directed Fleet Constructs and Logistics to provide you with any equipment and personnel you need to that effect.”

  “Aye aye, Admiral,” Dev says with some muted pride.

  The Admiral leans in toward Dev to speak discreetly. “I trust you three will have better luck this time.” Dev smiles slightly. The Admiral continues in normal, official tones. “I’ll take regular reports on your progress. We think you should be operational in a standard year’s time. That is, incidentally, the estimate from Fleet Intelligence on how long it will take the Yeti to recover their losses.”

  “I understand, Admiral.”

  The Admiral is about to depart, then stops. “One last thing, Lieutenant Commander Chaz.”

  “Yes, Admiral?”

  “You, sir, are out of uniform.” The Admiral hands Chaz a set of silver Crown Aviator wings.

  Chaz smiles. “Yes, Admiral!”

  “Carry on, sir.”

  The Flight Admiral’s aide-de-camp calls dismissed, and everyone in the room departs, except for the Commanders of Logistics and Fleet Constructs.

  Leftenant Bross is the last to leave. He closes and takes position just on the other side of the wood and glass doors. Dev remains at attention until he hears the doors close, and then he drops his shoulders with a large exhale. “One standard year.”

  “How long is that?” Chaz says to him.

  “Eighteen months on Earth.”

  “That’s not a lot of time.”

  Dev looks at the two officers who stayed behind and smiles at his old friends. “Tan, Joss, this is Lieutenant Commander Chaz Ronaldi. Chaz, may I present Logistics Commander Joss Gartha and Constructs Commander Tan Gartha. We were Midshipmen together.”

  “Best of the brightest,” Joss says with unusually high pride as he approaches and shakes Chaz’s hand. Tan shakes his hand as well. Dev and Joss look at each other and start laughing.

  Chaz looks at them and says, “What’s the joke?”

  “The joke,” Dev says, while shaking Joss’s hand, “is on us.”

  “The brightest of the dimmest,” Tan says, prompting the three Tertian officers to laugh together. Tan stops laughing and then explains to Chaz, “The three of us were assigned a special project in our senior year at the Citadel. And we botched the whole thing. Badly.”

  “You’re kidding,” Chaz says.

  Joss explains, “The Flight Admiral, who was then a visiting Fleet Commander teaching Line Tactics, said that in the annals of historic failures—”

  “And incompetence,” Tan interjects, holding up her finger.

  “— And incompetence, the three of us were, and I quote, ‘the brightest of the dimmest.’ ”

  Chaz cocks his head. “You mean the future of my world is in the hands of the brightest of the dimmest?”

  Dev takes the set of silver wings from Chaz. “Well, us and one primitive Earth man. That’s what the Admiral meant when he said he trusts we’ll have better luck this time.” Smiling, Dev places the wings on Chaz’s uniform jacket. “I think you made an impression.”

  “I don’t think the Field Marshal liked me very much,” Chaz says.

  Joss speaks to that. “After watching you fly, the Field Marshal said she thought this may actually work.”

  Tan looks at Dev. “Your plan to use non-spaceworthy parts from the Constructs Yard is brilliant. I have some ideas how to put together something that will work underground.”

  Joss speaks next. “And as your LOGIC, I’m going to need a list of everything you need in the station. Every piece of equipment, supplies, ordnance, energy requirements, uniforms, armaments, tools, everything.”


  “Logic?” Chaz says to Joss.

  Joss looks at Chaz. “Logistics Commander. We abbreviate the title to LOGIC.”

  Chaz looks at Tan. “You’re in Construction? Does that make you our Con-Com?”

  Tan smiles and she speaks amiably. “Almost. Technically, it’s Fleet Constructs Commander, so FLE-with two Cs, or fleece. It’s not as clever as LOGIC, but there it is.”

  “Short and sweet,” Chaz says. “Our Navy gins up these giant, long acronyms that don’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

  Tan turns to Dev. “Once we have a working design, I’ll configure a Cargo Lifter to transport the structure to Earth. If necessary, we can finalize fitting while in transit. We’ll also try to load everything you need in the structure and bring everything down at once to minimize our exposure down there.”

  “How many fighters, first of all?” Joss says.

  “Standard deployment squadron of six Class I TransAt fighters,” Dev replies, then adds for Tan’s information, “Plus an extra bay for any drop-in traffic or maintenance.”

  The officers take notes on their interlink devices.

  Joss considers the maintenance question. “Who is going to be your TECHO?”

  “TECHO?” Chaz says.

  “Technology Officer,” Joss replies. “Vehicle maintenance and tech support.”

  “I was thinking of Idris,” Dev says.

  “She’s one of the best,” Joss says, himself a former Tech Officer.

  Tan adds, “Idris has been teaching on Bellerophon for the last few years.”

  Dev nods. “She might be glad to get away from there for a while.”

  “I’ll speak to her, if you’d like,” Joss says.

  “I’d rather go up there and talk to her myself.” Dev looks at Chaz. “Tan and Idris were roommates when we were Mids.”

  Joss smiles. “The two fiercest women on Bellerophon.”

  Later, the four officers are still at work in the briefing room. Dev and Chaz finally took their hats off. Tan is currently considering the energy requirements and making calculations on her interlink device.

  “Six Class I TransAt fighters, each with regenerative positron generators . . . considering the size of the base, probably a third-generation subatomic reactor with a particle splitter would do the job more than adequately. The existing reactor on the component can be modified to those specs. But with that kind of land-based energy, you’ll definitely need an emergency fly-away system. That reactor is currently configured with a drop system. I’ll figure out a way to refit the reactor with an upper vertical escape shaft.”

  “That sounds problematic,” Chaz comments.

  “Only if it explodes,” Tan replies.

  By the end of the day, Chaz, Dev, Tan, and Joss have a rudimentary plan in place. Enough to allow each respective division to concentrate on their particular areas of expertise. They decide to close out the meeting with a visit to a historical venue to catch up socially and unwind a little before parting ways again, as they have done so many times in the past.

  The walk outside from the Fleet Combat Center toward the waterfront is beautiful. The hats are back on, though Joss and Tan are each wearing the less formal version appropriate for their uniforms. They end up walking through the quad, where crews are using a crane to lift the downed fighter out of the crater.

  “We made a mess of things,” Dev comments.

  “I heard that was your doing,” Joss adds with a smile. “I’m guessing if the landing looks like that, it was a pretty desperate situation.”

  Dev makes light of it. “Eh, we were in a hurry.”

  “He’s being uncharacteristically humble,” Chaz says. “We had two failed engines and ran out of fuel less than a foot above the ground.”

  “All in a day’s work, my new friend,” Joss says, while putting his hand on Chaz’s shoulder. “Here the Admiralty, the extraordinary is . . . ordinary.”

  The group meanders onward toward the waterfront. The stone path leads to a large historic, very nautical-looking old wood and brick house. There is a yardarm in the foreground, and two stone aquatic sculptures flank the steps to the doors.

  “Wow.” Chaz marvels at the large and elegant three-story building. The large multi-pane glass windows have that slight uneven look of original handmade glass. “What is this?”

  “Old Admiralty House,” Dev says. “Now the Fleet Officers Club.”

  Chaz gazes at the building. “Is there a New Admiralty House?”

  “Yes, it’s where the Admirals live. But this is the original, from back in the days when there was a single Fleet Admiral commanding all the ships that sailed our waters.”

  Two guards flank the door to the Club. They are wearing vintage uniform tunics and leggings of the Old Marine Guard of the past. They are armed with sabers and hold tall, ornate tridents. The guards stomp to attention, turn to the side, and cross tridents, blocking the doorway as the group approaches the stairs.

  One guardsman barks, “Avast there—who approaches!”

  The group, minus Chaz, responds, “Officers of the Crown.”

  “Aye aye!” That said, the guardsmen uncross the tridents and allow the officers to pass. Chaz is startled by this apparent formality and pauses. He trails the group and is startled when the guards suddenly cross tridents in front of him blocking his way. “Avast there, sir, who approaches!”

  Chaz realizes he didn’t reply earlier. “Officer of the Crown.”

  “Aye aye!” The guards allow him to pass. Dev looks back from the doorway and winks at Chaz.

  The main foyer of the Fleet Officers Club is from a bygone era. There is a grand wooden staircase central to the room, leading to the upper floors of the building. To the right is a large sitting room. To the left is a short hallway to the much larger barroom.

  Chaz looks up through the atrium to the second and third floors. “Wow. What’s up there?”

  Joss glances upward. “Second and third levels are for Flag Officers.”

  “Must be nice up there.” Chaz says.

  “None of us have ever been,” Joss replies.

  The foursome enter the main bar area. Due to recent events, the club is virtually empty. The room reminds Chaz of something out of the 19th century Royal Navy Yard in Britain. The cavernous room extends upwards to all three floors of the building. The large bar sits at the center and has the actual mast, rigging, bow section, gunwales, and anchor from an old wooden sailing ship blended into its forward end. The bow section is complete with its original cannons extending from gun ports on either side. The large tap room has roughly hewn wood beams in the high ceiling and dark paneling throughout. Nautical flags from across the Crown are mounted on the walls, along with various sabers, pictures, and seafaring memorabilia. There are recessed booths along each wall, as well as an area of small bistro tables, and several comfortable leather chairs before the large fireplace set between the tall multi-paned windows. Chaz notices only two other patrons, each sitting alone in different booths. Both seem solemnly lost in their own thoughts, no doubt having to do with the recent attack. Dev and Joss exchange a glance upon seeing the quiet patrons and motion to head over to the other side of the bar so as not to disturb them. One of the patrons sees the group enter and discreetly departs to find solace elsewhere.

  Dev diverts Chaz to the front end of the ship-bar to the bowsprit. The floor around the front of the bar is transparent, and the full bow section extends down into what was once the basement of the building. Chaz looks down at the clear floor as he walks around to the bow. His eyes work their way up to the mermaid figurine high up on the bowsprit.

  “Is this rigging authentic?” Chaz asks. “Is it from a real ship?”

  Dev nods with pride. “From the Southern Defense Ship Whirlwind.”

  Chaz is amazed. “How old is this?”

  “As old as the Admiralty.” Dev smiles and waxes poetic. “This ship saw battle in the days when wars were fought on the high seas. It was on this very shi
p Naval Grog was invented. Imagine, traveling at the mercy of the winds. Months of endless routine at sea, broken by pitched battles sometimes lasting only a few minutes. Stakes so incredibly high, you could wake up at dawn a mere Midshipman, then find yourself Acting First Leftenant after a battle before breakfast. Victories were celebrated; losses mourned. All here. And with their tankards held high, officers of the Whirlwind would toast, to absent friends and to new friends.”

  Chaz looks at Dev with a prideful smile upon learning the hallowed origins of his favorite toast.

  “Touch the keel, Commander,” Dev says. “Every officer of the Crown places a hand on the Whirlwind. Ideally on the day of their commissioning. Yesterday was . . . an exception.”

  Joss and Tan watch with a smile from their booth as Chaz presses his hand against the centermost beam near Whirlwind’s bowsprit, carrying on a tradition that has been in place for centuries. A barmaid sees the ceremony and quietly approaches the booth, where Joss simply holds up four fingers. The barmaid nods and returns to the bar.

  Chaz is no stranger to naval tradition and treats this moment with the deference it so richly deserves. He realizes the highly polished part of the keel beam is not from upkeep or varnish, but rather the countless number of hands that have graced its woodwork, imparting something of each officer into the very woodgrain itself, if only the oils from their skin.

  Dev squeezes Chaz’s shoulder and nods in approval. They then join Joss and Tan.

  “Now he’s official,” Dev says as he slides into the booth. Tan and Joss each shake Chaz’s hand and render a salute.

  “Thank you all,” Chaz says. “That was really something.” He adds, “I don’t know all the history yet, but I can certainly feel it.”

  The barmaid sets down four glass tankards on their table and quietly departs.

  Since Joss ordered the drinks, the honor falls to him to render the tribute. He raises his tankard. “To absent friends,” Joss says, and then motions his tankard toward Chaz. “And, to new friends.”