Second Earth

by Stephen A. Fender

  “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  Trent gave his best attempt at a nonchalant shrug. “Oh, nothing really. Just stopping by to say hello. You know how it goes.”

  “Yeah,” Shawn couldn’t help but smirk. “And right in the middle of everyone going to battle stations with the ship on high alert. You have impeccable timing, as always.”

  Trent smiled and leaned casually on the commander’s bed. “Just another day in the service.”

  Shawn went to a bedside locker and withdrew his helmet, his call sign, “Hawk,” stenciled in dark letters across the brow. “I wish I could say that were the case.”

  “Come on,” Trent said with a wave of his hand. “You’ve been there, done that before. Nothing new under the sun for you.”

  Shawn gave a half-laugh as he absently fumbled with the helmet. “And that’s what brought you up here, right? You just wanted to tell me that it’s just another day at the office, and that I have nothing to worry about?”

  Trent shrugged again. “Sure. Something like that.”

  “Uh-huh, and if pigs had wings—”

  “They’d give them a commission and put them in command of a fighter squadron,” Trent offered with a snap of his fingers.

  “Oh really? Is that a fact?”

  “It is,” Trent replied, as if indeed it was.

  “Well, this particular swine has to get down to the hangar ASAP. I’m on Ready-Five alert.”

  “Yeah,” Trent said as he slowly sat upright. “That’s what I came up here to talk to you about.”

  “Meaning?” Shawn asked with a confused expression. “You didn’t get ahold of a spare hammer and accidentally disable my fighter, did you?”

  “Well, no, but I figured you’d be heading out there soon,” Trent said as he inclined his head toward the paltry view port that was all Shawn’s cabin had been afforded. “I…uh…that is…I didn’t want you going out there alone.”

  Shawn had to laugh. “You have the worst case of space phobia that I know. You wouldn’t last five seconds in the seat of a fighter. Besides, the ship only has enough room for one. Now, we’re close and all, but we’re not that close, old buddy.”

  “Oh no,” Trent defended. “I’m not talking about me. There’s no way I’m getting in one of those things. That’d be all sorts of trouble.”

  Shawn gave his old mechanic a puzzled look. “Then I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re refereeing to.”

  Trent stood up and walked over to Shawn, stopping when he was within a few feet of the commander. He held out a clenched fist, about chest-high. He nodded toward the fist, and Shawn instinctively held his hand out to catch whatever Trent was about to release.

  At that moment, Trent unclenched his hand. A small, gleaming object on the end of a delicate chain fell neatly into Shawn’s palm. Shawn instantly recognized the cross, one his departed wife had given him years ago. He smiled in amazement.

  “Where on Third Earth did you find this? I thought I lost it back on Darus Station.”

  “Things come my way,” Trent said with a wink. The disapproving look he was given by Shawn coaxed the rest of the truth from his lips. “Actually, it was Clarissa who found it.”

  “McAllister?” Shawn supplied the last name of the talkative, yet not entirely unattractive supply officer who seemed to have formed a permanent bond to Trent’s side in the last few weeks.

  Trent nodded. “One and the same. She found it lodged underneath an auxiliary cooling conduit under the copilot’s seat in Sylvia’s Delight yesterday. I hadn’t had a chance to see you until now, so I thought…well, I just wanted to return it to its rightful owner.”

  Shawn regarded the small, flat cross. Its surface had a few small scratches, just from normal wear and tear, but it nonetheless looked as new as the day he’d been given it. He smiled widely. “Thanks, man.”

  “No biggie. Besides, I can’t have you going up there without your good luck charm.”

  Shawn quickly clasped the chain around his neck. “You know I don’t believe in luck, Trent.”

  “Yeah, I know. But, you do believe in that,” Trent said as he pointed to the cross. “And, after some of the tight fixes I’ve seen you get out of, I have to admit there is something to that little symbol of yours.”

  “It’s more than just a symbol. Besides, I never thought of you as an overly religious man.”

  Trent laughed. “Well, we just got drafted back into the service to fight a war that nobody’s sure we’re going to win. And now we’ve come across an enemy that can disable an entire fleet destroyer with a single shot. All things considered, let’s just say I’m checking out my options for the afterlife.”

  “Wow. You’re all sorts of optimistic today, aren’t you?”

  “Besides,” Trent continued, unfazed, “if it helps you get back here in one piece, then I’m glad you have it.”

  Shawn nodded as a silence fell in the compartment. The two men shared a knowing look, and then Shawn slowly extended his hand, which Trent grasped firmly.

  “I’ll be back soon, old friend. Until then, do me a favor and keep things together,” Shawn said, offering the same farewell to Trent he’d issued countless times.

  “I’ll be on the flight deck, tending to any of the damaged craft that need emergency repairs.” Trent smiled approvingly. “Go give ‘em hell, Commander.”

  * * *

  The small personnel carrier, designed to accommodate six pilots, their associated gear, and one driver, lumbered through the immense hangar deck of the Rhea, overburdened with the weight of six pilots, two turret operators, and a mechanic. The carrier’s engine moaned under the added strain, and when it came to a halt near a selection of waiting fighters parked neatly in a triangular pattern, the vehicle seemed to sigh in relief as everyone—save for the mechanic—departed for their respective vessels.

  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 q
uickly 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?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they all repeated once more.

  “Good. Brain, we should be nearing sensor range of our recon squadron. What do you see out there?”

  Lieutenant Brian Jefferies adjusted the long-range sensors on his craft which, thanks to some minor modifications done by himself over the course of their deployment, were slightly more powerful than anyone else’s on the Rhea—with the exception of the two ELINT squadrons. He adjusted his sensors to their finest settings, but his readings were as perplexing as ever.