Second Earth (20 page)

 
 
Shawn walked toward the assigned parking
station for the Rippers, admiring the smooth, unbroken lines of the
experimental interceptors that had been assigned to his squadron. Two fighters
had been singled out from the rest, placed on alert status, and were finishing
their preparations for launch. Jerry Santorum was there, and beside Nova’s
fighter was Lieutenant Junior-Grade Walter “Weasel” Gunderson’s craft, poised
like a predator waiting for permission to hunt. As he neared the two pilots,
Shawn could hear Nova and Weasel going over some last-minute pointers when
their conversation was halted by the voice of Caitlin Hayes ringing out across
the ship’s PA system.

  
“All flight crews
prepare to launch immediately. We are under attack. Repeat: we are under
attack. Ready-Five fighters, standby to launch.”

  
Shawn was now
within speaking distance of the two men. “Well, that’s us,” Jerry said to his
commander with a cocky smile.

  
Shawn looked from
Nova to the tall, thin Gunderson, and back. “I’ll see you out there, boys,” he
offered with a gentle pat on Jerry’s shoulder.

  
“I’ll try to leave
a few bandits for you,” Nova said with the usual lighthearted arrogance so
often attributed to combat pilots.

  
Shawn smiled at the
words. “The only favor you can do for me is to not get your tails shot down.”

  
Weasel smiled with
an almost boyish grin. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  
“I’m sure you will,
both of you,” Shawn said. “I’ll form up with you two as soon as I can.”

  
“You’re coming out
there, too, Skipper?” Jerry asked in surprise, his blue eyes lighting up with
the news.

  
Shawn nodded.
“Something tells me that we’re going to need all the help we can get. There’s
no way I’m sitting this one out.”

  
“Yes, sir,” both
Nova and Weasel exclaimed in unison. The three men exchanged a quick salute
before the two alert-five pilots climbed into their respective craft.

  
Moments later the
two fighters were rocketing out of the
Rhea
’s
starboard launch tubes. Shawn had no idea what his squadron mates were about to
go up against, but he had full confidence in their ability to do their very
best in a critical situation. He turned and hurried off to find the nearest
flight deck officer, intent on getting his own fighter ready for launch.

* * *

  
“What do you mean
I’m not
authorized
?” Shawn spat
disgustedly at the flight deck chief. “That’s my fighter over there! Make it
ready for immediate takeoff.” Only moments before, he had been seated
comfortably in his fighter. As the cockpit closed around him, he had slipped
his ident card into the computer and had attempted to initiate the fighter’s
twin engines.

  
“Unable to comply.
You are not authorized to pilot this craft in a combat situation. Ready for
query,” the overly sultry computerized voice had almost lustfully dictated.

  
“Override,
computer. Initiate the main drive engines,” he’d said as he recalled the last
time
Sylvia’s Delight
’s computer had
given him nearly the same response while he plummeted in a fiery mass toward the
surface of Minos.

  
And in the same
manner as
D
’s, the Maelstrom’s
terminal had responded negatively with, “Unable to comply. You do not have
required privileges to circumvent IDC protocols. Ready for query.”

  
After two more
failed attempts, Shawn leapt angrily from the cockpit and flagged down the
nearest crew chief.

  
The chief was a
crusty, older non-commissioned officer, whose battle-scarred face told Shawn
that he wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

  
“Listen, sir, I’m
not about to tell you how to do your job, so don’t go presuming you can tell me
how to do mine! I’ve got over two dozen fighters I’m responsible for, and now
the powers that be have put me in charge of those Marine VTOLs as well.”

  
“Then delegate,
Chief. Get someone to prep my ship now.”

  
The chief held up
an electronic tablet for Shawn’s inspection. “You see this, sir? It comes right
from the Flight Control Officer, Commander Hayes, otherwise known as the
operations officer.”

  
“Yeah,” Shawn
sighed heavily. “I know who she is.”

  
“Well, seeing as
how you know that, you know she trumps your word in the chain of command.” The
chief then pushed the stylus into Shawn’s hand. “This is the list of all the
officers authorized for combat flying, and your name ain’t on the list. So, as
they say: no name, no flame.”

  
Shawn studied the
list for a moment, then shoved it back at the chief. “What the hell does that
mean?”

  
“It means, sir,
that if you’re name isn’t on the list, you don’t get to fly. Simple. Now I
suggest you get out of the way and let the
authorized
pilots get out and do their duties, sir. Or do I need to call security and have
them escort you out of the hangar?”

  
Shawn could see
that, not only was his argument going nowhere, he didn’t have time to play
space politics with anyone on board, let alone an enlisted man with a sense of
grandeur. He needed to go straight to the top, and he needed to do it quickly.

  
“I’ll be right
back,” he said sternly to the chief.

  
The hangar chief
looked at him doubtfully, then went back to his duties without another word to
Shawn.

  
Shawn bolted from
the hangar deck as more fighters began to launch. As he sprinted throughout the
corridors, he nearly ran headlong into Bagpipes and Raven on their way to their
fighters.

  
“Beg your pardon,
sir,” Ensign Clarissa McAllister said formally as she and Roslyn Brunel stopped
in their tracks and flattened themselves against the side of the bulkhead.

  
Shawn likewise
turned sideways at the last minute, skipping past them and nearly scraping his
nose across Raven’s in the process.

  
“Hey, where you
going, Skipper?” Brunel called out. “I believe your fighter is parked in the
other direction.”

  
“I’ve got to go see
a man about a list, Commander,” he shouted back without turning around.

  
Clarissa and Roslyn
turned to one another in confusion. After a mutual shrug, they continued their
run toward the hangar.

* * *

  
Shawn bolted into
the combat information center, fully outfitted in his flight gear and wielding
his helmet toward Krif like a bulbous club.

  
The captain,
puzzled by Kestrel’s abrupt entrance, took an unconscious step backward as
Shawn glared him down, now pointing his helmet at the captain as if it were a
loaded pistol.

  
“Kestrel!” he
barked at Shawn. “What in God’s name are
you
doing up here? You should be down in your fighter. Scratch that…you should be
out in space with the rest of your squadron by now! If you came up here to let
me know you’d like to be written up for dereliction of duty, you’ve succeeded
mightily, Commander.”

  
“I got held up by a
minor inconvenience,” Shawn said, still pointing his helmet at Krif defiantly.

  
“Right,” Krif’s
tone was sarcastic. “Sure you did. And this minor inconvenience has an OSI
badge, I’ll wager.”

  
“Oh no.” Shawn
sneered and stepped closer to Krif, his helmet now an inch from the captain’s
chest. “Not this time, Dick. This time it was one of
your
people.”

  
“Mine?” Krif spat
back incredulously. “I seriously doubt that.”

  
“Oh really? Why
don’t you ask the
Commander
over
there?” Shawn inclined his head toward Caitlin, who was poised behind her
station, watching the altercation between the two men. When Krif caught her
eye, she quickly turned back to her status board.

  
Krif looked over to
Caitlin. “What the hell is he talking about, Commander?”

  
Caitlin looked back
at Krif, then shook her head in confusion. “I have no idea, sir.”

  
“Oh, please!” Shawn
yelled, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t have time for this, Dick! Tell
your lackeys that I’m completely qualified for combat flying. Then tell them to
be gracious enough to let my ident card start my fighter up.”

  
Richard likewise
didn’t have the time for this right now, but if Shawn Kestrel wasn’t out there
in his fighter, then the rest of the battle could damn well wait. Krif turned
to Hayes with a puzzled expression. “Explanation, Commander?”

  
Caitlin nodded to a
nearby crewman, who took her place at the flight controller’s station as she
sidestepped away. She withdrew a duplicate copy of the flight roster and
stepped over to Krif, cautious about treading too close to the obviously
agitated pilot who was nearly in his face.

  
“This is the
current flight roster, sir. It lists every pilot currently qualified for combat
flying. Lieutenant Commander Kestrel’s current training record shows no current
relevant combat training sorties.”

  
Krif looked to
Shawn, not in defiance, but not quite apologetically either. “Well, at least I
know it’s not
your
fault this time,
Kestrel.” He then turned to face Caitlin and tossed the list back at her. “Get
him on that list, Commander. Now.”

  
Caitlin blinked
twice in astonishment. “But…sir! That’s against regulation seventy-six dash—”

  
Krif pushed Shawn
aside and stepped to within an inch of the second officer. He lowered his tone
to an angry growl. “Get him on that list or be relieved of your duty on the way
to the brig! Do I make myself clear, Miss Hayes?”

  
Caitlin swallowed
hard. She glanced around the room at the officers present and then turned back
to Krif. She nonchalantly pushed some strands of hair behind her ear. “Yes,
sir. Very clear.” She turned quickly back to her computer and began inputting
the information.

  
Krif swiveled to
see Shawn still there, helmet in hand, but no longer pointing it menacingly at
the captain. In fact, he looked as if he’d just seen a ghost. It was almost
comical.

  
“Well? What are you
still doing here? Get to your craft, pilot! And don’t make me regret it.”

  
Several weeks
before, Krif had made it perfectly clear that Shawn was to receive no tactical
training in the simulator. Regardless of that, Roslyn and Lieutenant Drok
I’Rondus had begun training him anyway. Shawn realized that Krif must have
known that fact; otherwise their argument would still be continuing. Still, he
couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, sir!”

* * *

  
Nova, Drake, The
Brain, and Weasel’s fighters were already formed up by the time Raven and
Bagpipes arrived at the designated rendezvous coordinates. The squadron quickly
reoriented themselves into a V-Formation, putting Raven’s fighter in the lead
slot. Jerry came over the squadron tac-net as soon as Raven’s craft had assumed
her position.

  
“Hey Raven, where’s
the Skipper?” he’d asked.

  
Roslyn chuckled.
“I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.”

  
Lieutenant
I'Rondus, his fighter directly behind and to the port of Raven, spoke into the
channel before Jerry could respond. “All things considered, he’s not cleared
for combat flying yet, remember? He’ll have a heck of a time getting that past
Captain Krif.”

  
Jerry chuckled.
“You think a thing like that is going to stop him, Drake?”

  
“No. I’m just
pointing out facts.”

  
Raven jumped back
in. “Let’s just forget about it until it happens. We’ve got a job to do out
here, people, and it needs to be done whether the Skipper is out here or not.
If word gets back to him that I’ve slacked off in my duties as executive
officer, then there will be hell to pay, and I’ll be taking it right out of
your behinds.”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” the
entire squadron chimed in near-unison.
 

  
“Besides,” Roslyn
continued, “he’d probably be pretty brassed-off that we’re worried about him
when everyone on the
Agincourt
is
probably dead, not to mention how many of our own pilots could be down. We need
to focus our attention on the intruder out there, boys. Everything else is
secondary, including the Skipper. Is that clear?”