“Just calling them like a see them,” Six-Pack slurred with a belch. He continued to mock Jeff as he and Joanne crossed the haphazardly arranged room. Grabbing a stool at the bar Jeff slouched against its lip while Joanne ordered drinks. Quietly thanking her, he took the glass served before him and sipped it slowly trying to ignore the verbal berating from behind.
Nudging him with her elbow Joanne said quietly, “Hey. Moping about it isn’t going to change anything.”
Replying with a grunt, Jeff quickly downed the glass pushing it forward for a refill. Six-Pack and his friends cackled in amusement. The cycle continued for near on twenty minutes. Jeff ordering drinks and the belligerent band of veterans taking turns taunting him. The routine came to a spectacular finish when Joanne, somehow sensing his mood, tenderly placed a hand on his shoulder. Six-Pack pounced.
“Thinking of adding another notch to your bedpost Apple?” the gnarled man slurred.
“Why don’t you shut the hell up,” Jeff called back over his shoulder.
“He’s just trying to goad you Knight,” Joanne tried to say.
All Jeff heard was Six-Pack’s aping parody. Emboldened by the response, the veteran taunted, “So. The Drifter has some teeth after all!” He stood unsteadily and began to shamble more than walk towards the two.
“Sit down before you hurt yourself you alcoholic has-been!” Joanne cut. The words didn’t seem to deter him.
“Why don’t you keep your filthy hole shut while I’m talking to the Drifter whore.”
Closing his eyes tightly Jeff slammed the remainder of his drink. Smoothly, well maybe not that smoothly, he stood up and faced the man. Squaring his shoulders, he looked Six-Pack dead in the eyes saying, “I’m going to give you one chance to take that back!”
“I just call ’em like I see ’em Drifter.” Six-Pack smiled spreading his arms. “You see. Apple Bottom here, got caught, whoring it up, on Admiral Caloway’s couch.” He leered at Joanne with a decidedly sleazy grin. “His personal yeoman got a nice long look at those plump rosy cheeks.” Suppressing a belch he added, “The name fits her. But not as well as
Whore—”
Six-Pack didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence. Jeff’s right hand moved in a blink and knocked the greying pilot out cold in an instant. Dead silence fell on the room, the gathered officers starring in shock at what just happened. All eyes rested on Jeff who he massaged his hand while staring daggers at the crumpled unconscious pilot. “There are some things you just don’t call ladies,” he seethed before kicking Six-Pack hard in the ribs. “Thanks for the drink,” he sourly told Joanne and stormed from the room.
***
Cracking open a beer Jeff dropped into his desk chair immediately going to work at draining the can of its contents. Belching loudly, he crushed the can making a show of lofting it towards the recycle bin. He missed, but he didn’t care. With an easy kick he rolled the chair over to the fridge retrieving another. Popping it open he slouched against the desktop tapping his terminal screen to wake it up. With a groan he sat upright when the computer demanded he submit to a retina scan before allowing him access. Once in he began scanning through his messages. Mostly reports, ship wide announcements and other boring drudgery. But a smile did crack his face when he noticed a video call from his mother. Tapping its icon, he leaned back sipping his beer as the message began to play.
“Hi Jeff,” his mother’s sweet voice cooed through the speakers. “It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you. I know you’re probably busy with your responsibilities…that or being a scamp.” A fond giggle caressed her voice. “Just be sure to behave better than you did at the Academy. It was unbecoming of you as a cadet and certainly wouldn’t look good for an officer to pull childish stunts.” Linda sighed shaking her head with a smile. “I’m sorry honey. But a mother worries. You’re just so far away, and I miss you.
“I don’t know if you’ve talked with RJ at all. Even if you did I’m sure he wouldn’t tell you he’s been bragging to anyone whose ear he can catch. All about his little brother the fighter pilot who got bumped to lieutenant in under a year.”
Jeff let his mother’s words wash over him. The events of the day still weighed heavily on his mind. Besides, most of the message was the usual gushing of congratulations from friends he’d grown up with. He did catch a snippet of Alex mouthing off at him about being a warmonger. The smartass little shit just didn’t understand. Jeff respected his brother’s dedication to his convictions but despised his tendency to twist the facts to his liking. It rekindled the sour mood that had begun to ebb.
Reaching to tap the record icon to give the kid some pointers about what was happening out in deep space the sound of the door chime saved him from the mistake. “Enter,” he called turning to face the hatch.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were even here,” Joanne said stepped over the threshold. “I’ve been tapping the bell for about three…minutes.” Her gaze seemed to scan the floor. Pressing her fists to her hips she added, “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Following her eyes Jeff was stunned to find four cans strewn about the floor. A fifth that was half full rested in his hand. The room spun a little when he shifted his vision back up at her. “Well would you look at that,” he slurred adding a short whistle.
“I think it’s time we get you in your rack,” Joanne said with a sassy smile. After pulling the rack down from the wall she grabbed him under his arms and hoisted him to his feet. “You caused quite a stir in the pilot’s lounge,” she grunted with the effort to move his almost two-meter frame. “It took, a bit of soothing, on my part,” she stammered trying to twist him around before finally balancing him, “to keep Six–Pack’s friends from coming after you.” Joanne stood a moment leaning almost as much on Jeff as he was on her. “You’re heavier than you look. Anyway,” she continued shuffling him towards the rack, “half the officers in the lounge thought Six-Pack got what he deserved.”
Jeff whooped at the news. “I’m the shit now eh?” he said with a strain as Joanne dropped him on the thin mattress. The room spun more violently and he fell back to stare at the ceiling.
He was vaguely aware of her pulling his boots off to manhandle his legs up onto the rack. “Dear God what has this fleet gotten itself into?” There was the distinct sound of laughter in her voice. “You’re either going to be the death of us all, or pull off one of your old man’s boasts.” His head was swimming at this point and barely registered Joanne killing the lights on her way out leaving the room faintly bathed from the soft glow of his terminals monitor.
CHAPTER 8:
EARNING YOUR CHOPS
Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment Jeff admonished himself for the previous night’s bad decisions. The sound of the flight controller echoing in his helmet sent reverberations of pain through his skull. Flexing his fist, he hoped the pain in his hand would distract him from the pain in his head. It didn’t and he wished once again he’d used a little more self-control the night before. Staring at the launch indicator with malice he croaked, “Tungsten tower…” Clearing his throat he repeated more clearly, “Tungsten tower, Knight three zero four. In tube three. Good power, good wipeout,”
“You all right three zero four?” the controller called back, “You sound a little hoarse.”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Let’s say I had a rough night.”
“Copy that three zero four. Clear to launch call when spaceborne.”
“Three zero four.”
Jeff briefly questioned his sanity when the catapult threw his razor down the tunnel. Again he squeezed his eyes shut intent on keeping himself from vomiting during the process. It thankfully ended quickly and he welcomed the now familiar weightlessness of space. Leveling the fighter into a patrol pattern his eyes lazily scanned the HUD when the proximity alarm sounded.
“Wake up Knight,” Joanne laughed over the channel. Her razor hurtled past within a meter of his canopy.
Head spinning from the clos
e call Jeff squeezed his eyes shut again briefly. “Apple,” he groaned, “you are one nasty little woman.”
“If you think that’s bad, you should have heard some of my other ideas,” the lieutenant chuckled. “But I figured you’re probably suffering enough as it is.”
Pushing up the throttle Jeff fell in on her wing to begin the first of many trips around the fleet perimeter. “I guess I should be thanking you then,” a hint of mockery tinged his voice. “But could we get this over with as quickly and…quietly as possible?”
“Awe Knight. Tough enough to lay out old Six-Pack, but can’t handle a leisurely patrol with a little headache.”
“More like a migraine,” he groaned.
“Are you always so melodramatic when you’re not feeling well?”
“Suck on it Apple,” he bit back.
“All right, all right, I’ll leave ya alone,” she laughed. “Come about five degrees to the port of that cruiser up there. I figure we’ll pull a wide arc around before doing some flybys of the fleet interior.”
“Roger,” Jeff answered adjusting his course to follow her lead. Their razors moved swiftly banking around the nearest cruiser to establish a flight pattern just over one-hundred and sixty kilometers out. It was an agonizingly dull five hours. Circle the fleet, weave through interior traffic, rinse and repeat. By the third pass Jeff began recognizing the multitude of capitol ships by their battle scars as well as hull registries. The Independence was pockmarked from close broadsides with Drac space cruisers. The Melbourne had a noticeable chunk missing from her conning tower. The Riverside looked destined for the scrap heap with the amount of repair ships swarming over her hull.
The only excitement, if you could call it that, to fill the drudgery was the occasional ship jumping in or out of superluminal. Random banter crisscrossed the radio channel. Typically dull fleet communications, though occasionally a recon plane was dispatched to investigate a sensor echo or some other anomaly. Of course his flight was never tagged to fly cover. So on went the infernal looping of the fleet. Passing the same ships, listening to the same radio chatter and dodging the same shuttles clogging up the patterns with someone so important they could ignore procedure.
He was thankful when they’d completed their final sweep and received the order to return home to Tungsten’s inviting holds. The brief bit of cheer was short lived as after a quick shower Jeff found himself hunched over the desk in his cabin painstakingly working on his report. Even as a child he’d not cared for doing reports on uninteresting topics. The results of a standard patrol were the epitome of uninteresting. The days, weeks and months that followed fell into a monotonous pattern of patrols and reports. Five hours of empty space followed by even more hours of debriefings, reports and various drills.
Occasionally a Drac ship or two would pop up adding a taste of excitement to the task. Even though he was still barred from combat, the random skirmishes delivered Commander Simmons’ desired effects. If the sortie took place on the far side of the fleet Jeff would proceed with patrol. If closer he’d retreat to a close cover pattern. All the while Jeff slowly built up a resilience to the disquieting nature of deep space combat. However unsettling or disorienting the entire ordeal remained, the sheer resolve necessary for a combat pilot formed a thick emotional scab. One that would be tested, time and again, in the coming years.
***
“So, Styles is finally letting us off the leash,” Jeff said excitedly while sipping his drink. A fast friendship had grown between him, James and Joanne. Commander Simmons on the other hand, though perfectly happy to enjoy drinks, preferred to keep his distance.
“Are you really that anxious to get into that meat grinder?” the gruff squadron leader asked. “It’s not all glory kid.”
“Who said anything about glory?” Jeff quipped. “Patrolling shipping lanes isn’t exactly the front lines. I just want a change from this tired day to day business.”
“The day to day ain’t so bad,” Joanne chimed in, “beats the hell out of getting shot at.”
“I think Knight’s just sick of the reports,” James said adding with a laugh, “I’m a little tired of them myself. Your writing sucks.”
“I’m an admirer of literature Skid, not an author,” Jeff coyly replied.
“Bullshit Knight. You’re just lazy and find it boring.” Finishing his drink, James stood asking, “You guys want anything?”
“Whiskey,” the raspy voice of Six-Pack called. Jeff twisted in his seat looking up as the gnarled veteran stepped over. The man glared down at Jeff adding, “You can get one for the drifter too while you’re at it.” Grabbing a nearby chair gruffly he made a ruckus dragging it over to plop down, uninvited, and stare at Jeff. The dark circles rimming his eyes accentuated his icy gaze. It was a look that screamed to Jeff that his abilities were being weighed.
Rubbing the side of his face where Jeff had belted him some month’s back Six-Pack said, “You’ve got the look of your old man...same right hook too.” He paused when James placed two dark tumblers between them. Jeff fingered his current unfinished glass unable to tear his eyes away from Six Pack’s weighing stare. “Shit,” the veteran continued. Lifting the glass, he swallowed the contents in one gulp. “You’re as cocky as he was too. I’ve never met a man who thought so much of himself, and went out of his way to prove it. You’ve got it too Drifter. I see it in your eyes. Cocky! Arrogant! You think you’re better than anyone in this room and you’re just itchin to prove it.”
“If you think you’re intimidating me, you’re not.”
Six-Pack responded with a raspy laugh. “I’m not trying to intimidate you kid. I’m challenging you. I want to see if you can back up your bullshit. Russell Grant was the greatest combat pilot I’ve ever seen. If it weren’t for you and your mother he’d still be jocking a razor. The man was born with a stick in his hand.”
“I’ve never backed down from a challenge in my life,” Jeff threatened reaching for the second glass of whiskey.
Six-Pack beat him to it. “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said throwing the drink down his throat. “Sunshine! Next time those Drac bastards decide to show their ugly asses, put the drifter on my wing. I want to see if he’s really as good as he thinks he is, or just some wet behind the ears pretender without enough sense to know the difference between being a great man’s son and being a great man’s successor.” Jeff’s eyes remained locked with Six-Pack’s as he stood. A hint of a smirk graced the older man’s face, as if thinking of some grand joke being played on everyone. “I hope I’m right about you Drifter,” he said simply.
Jeff’s head followed the veteran as he left the room. Draining his glass, he turned back to the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a tougher person in my life,” he said quietly.
“That’s also the closest thing I’ve ever heard to a compliment come out of his mouth,” James added. “I don’t know if it’s respect for your father or what, but…”
“Six-Pack doesn’t compliment anyone,” Joanne quipped, “much less green pilots.” Resting her arms on the table she slowly twisted her glass between her palms. “All he is, is an obnoxious drunk with a death wish.”
“Just like Russ Grant.” Everyone at the table turned to look at Simmons. “Six-Pack has flown more missions than everyone in this room combined. You don’t get to his age doing this job by luck or with a weak bladder. After a while you pick up a sixth sense. You see things nobody else can. There’s a wealth of experience in him. A natural killing machine out there…sheer brilliance.” Turning his attention to Jeff the commander said in a grave tone, “Whether I like it or not you’re going out there with him. The old dog will just pull rank if I say no.”
***
The months following Six-Pack’s demand passed along quietly. More quiet than Jeff’s time with the main battle group. The endless days of fleet patrol, far closer to the hot zone, became endless days of long range recon guarding shipping lanes. Civilian cargo vessels didn’t possess the same c
aliber of superluminal drives as their military counterparts. Various jump coordinates were established to provide a semblance of security for honest traders. But this didn’t stop more nefarious types from ambushing ships with engine trouble in the deeper reaches of space leaving the UECN little choice but to designate small forces as deep space versions of the coast guard.
The route Jeff and the Diamondbacks found themselves protecting connected the planet Prokuon orbiting the star Procyon and the planet Tiryns at Tau Ceti. At one time well-traveled, it was now frequented by captains more interested in profit over safety as well as smugglers taking advantage of the Eridani asteroid field which nearly bisected the path. The assignment rankled Six-Pack who’d believed they’d be covering military transports between supply depots. And he complained loudly about it in the pilots lounge on several occasions.
To be sure Jeff would be flying missions with him, Six-Pack talked Jammer—Tungsten’s Commander Air Group—into temporarily reassigning him as flight leader of the Diamondbacks Gamma Flight pushing James to the side. James didn’t seem to mind the grade reduction. At least outwardly he didn’t. If he had Six-Pack would have at best ignored the pilot. More likely he’d go to town on him in his well-known colorful ways. There was no getting around it. Six-Pack appeared even more eager to see what Jeff could do as Jeff himself. And far too soon for Jeff’s liking the old man’s wish came true.
“Cargo ship Star Clipper, what is your status,” Jeff heard Commander Simmons call over the channel. Garbled static flooded the signal in reply. Jeff’s eye’s smoothly scanned the HUD. A tremendous amount of interference surrounded the ship they were racing towards clouding the display. Magnifying the image didn’t help. What looked like sparks surrounded the ship. But for all he knew that could simply be emissions from the ships Vernier thrusters. “What do you make of it Six-Pack?” Simmons voice again crackled in Jeff’s helmet.
“Goddamn smugglers,” Six-Pack said. By the sound of his voice Jeff got the impression the captain wanted to spit.
In the Blink of an Eye Page 8
