Tommy Thorn Marked (13 page)

“You’re going up alone today, Mr. Thorn,” the 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.

Two weeks
, Tommy thought while lounging on his couch. Having made plans to visit Mars with Gary and Bo, he found himself again checking his wristcomm and staring out the window. It was strange not to see swarms of Fireflies dancing and darting in the skies above the Slate’s flight operations area, but with the coming storm, aircraft were now tied down or sealed away in the protection of the massive hanger bays. The last of the primary students were already at base ops waiting to board shuttles—all but Tommy, Bo, and Gary.

Where are
they
? Tommy wondered and continued to fidget, checking his wristcomm for the umpteenth time as his hatch chimed. “Finally,” he said, grabbed his bag, which had been packed for three days, and darted to the hatch, arriving just as it slid open. “Bo.”

Bo lugged in her rather large, hard-shelled travel bag and surveyed the room. “No Gary?”

Tommy shook his head and collapsed back onto the couch, frustration showing on his face.

“The make-up exam should have been completed twenty minutes ago,” she said adjusting her uniform’s integrated waist belt.

While all three had been doing very well with their flying, Gary had struggled at times with academics, particularly with the science of static propulsion compensation. It was this failing that had prompted his instructor to assign extra credit in the form of a practical evaluation, an evaluation that should have ended by now.

Tommy again rolled his forearm and stared at his wristcomm. “We’re not going to make it,” he said, tapping the display’s face.

Bo frowned, about to suggest they make a mad dash for ops, but then thought better of it. After all, they were headed to Gary’s home, and with that thought, she too slumped onto the couch.

Suddenly, Tommy, feeling a tingle on his wrist, swiped at the face of his comm.

“Tommy!” It was Gary, sounding out of breath.

“Where are you, Cruiser?”

“Is Bo with ya?” Gary asked.

“Duh,” was Tommy’s sarcastic reply.

“I’m on my way to the shuttle—get your butts over there.”

Tommy and Bo grabbed their bags and were out of the hatch before Gary stopped speaking.

“Hold them off, we’re on our way!” Tommy shouted.

Making unprecedented time, Bo and Tommy dashed inside flight ops and ran directly to their boarding tunnel, where they encountered a very perturbed corporal still waiting by the gate.

“Ensigns Thorn and Bo?” the corporal asked, making a point to check his wristcomm.

“Yes,” Tommy said, and then between deep breaths, “thanks for holding her.”

Bo looked up, hands on knees, taking in large gulps of air, and acknowledged the young Farsee.

“Okay, sir, ma’am,” he said, waving them through the gate. “You two are lucky. The only reason the shuttle hasn’t launched is some ensign fell and twisted his ankle, or some such—blocked the gate for almost ten minutes.”