The Fighter Queen

by John Bowers

  Twenty-six years of mental torture, and now it was worth every sleepless night.

  "Can I see the holos again?" he asked Holt.

  "No. Not until I git some answers. How'd yew git her off the planet?"

  "I didn't," Pedersen said truthfully. "It was your own people. The SE, Major Holt, is as corrupt as any other elitist organization. I simply paid off the right people."

  "Yew are tellin' me that someone in the Sirian Elite Guards helped you do it?" Holt looked as if Pedersen had lost his mind.

  "Of course. It was early in the occupation; the Confederacy had a death-grip on the entire planet. Nothing could arrive or depart without SE scrutiny. No one else could have done it."

  Holt returned to his chair and sat down. He picked up a stylus and a pad of paper.

  "I want some names."

  Pedersen laughed and shook his head.

  "Major Holt, I of all people have no love for the SE, but I'm not about to betray those individuals who committed the only decent act I've ever witnessed from your civilization. Goddess, they're probably all dead now anyway. Why should I give them up?"

  "Because if yew don't, I can have yew executed."

  "So you would execute them instead? I'm an old man, Major. I won't live that many more years anyway. Scorn, I might die in the next bombing raid."

  "Yew still have a wife. We can make yew talk."

  Pedersen met his eyes, but didn't reply for twenty seconds. In his euphoria he'd forgot about Inga. He had a responsibility to her as well. A wave of regret washed over him; he'd hoped it would never come to this, but he really had no choice now. He lowered his head.

  "If you'll let me see those holos again, I'll think about it."

  May-July, 0240 (PCC) — Luna Base 1, Luna

  Fortunately for Johnny Lincoln II, although Major Dunn was in command of the training squadron, he wasn't the only instructor. As Advanced Flight Training continued and the ranks thinned, Dunn worked with other trainees and left Johnny to one of his subordinates, Capt. Jerome Carver. Carver was about thirty, had lost an arm at Beta Centauri, and was transferred out of combat permanently. His arm had been replaced through bio-regeneration and he was as good in the cockpit as ever.

  Johnny liked him, and the feeling was mutual.

  "Don't get in a hurry, kid," Carver said one afternoon as the two of them were taking a break. "Combat may seem glamorous, but it isn't. Trust me, you don't need to be in a hurry to get shot at."

  Johnny sighed. "It's just that this part is boring, sir," he said. "Almost everything I've been taught here I already know."

  Carver nodded his agreement.

  "No argument there," he said. "You can handle a ship better than most veterans. But if you keep your eyes open you just might pick up the one thing that will save your ass some day. Keep that in mind."

  "Yes, sir."

  The weeks dragged by. The forty-one candidates were reduced through attrition to nineteen, and the final weeks of training would be spent flying missions with gunners on board.

  The gunners were also trainees, just finishing their final month of G-class gunnery. The youthful pilots were excited, and a little apprehensive. These would not necessarily be permanent assignments, but aside from clerical personnel, they were the first girls the men had seen in months.

  The big meeting occurred on neutral ground, in a ballroom at Luna 1. Nineteen pilots, nineteen gunners. A couple of the girls were real beauties, and the rest were attractive enough. For thirty minutes they were allowed to mingle, telling lies and trying to impress each other. Then the pilots made the girls offers, which were accepted or rejected.

  Johnny picked a pretty brunette whose spiky hair reminded him of Aunt Onja. He spent the entire thirty minutes with her, learned she was from Nova Scotia and had scored Expert in the simulators. When he told her his name her eyes widened in surprise.

  "Johnny Lincoln?" she gasped. "Is that a coincidence, or what?"

  "Is what a coincidence?" he asked innocently.

  "The most famous fighter pilot of the war was named Johnny Lincoln," she said. "Are you related to him?"

  "Oh, you mean my dad," he said carelessly.

  "Oh, my god! Are you kidding?"

  When he offered her a place in his gun turret, her response was automatic — she accepted.

  Her name was Joanne Lewis.

  For a week they practiced open-space combat, spent another week flying atmospheric maneuvers, and moved on to ground support strikes — which, given the current state of the war and the dwindling size of the Sirian combat fleet, was more realistic. Joanne was as good as advertised, and together she and Johnny compiled the best training scores in the squadron.

  Johnny decided to make Joanne a permanent offer when they graduated.

  Only one week to go …

  * * *

  The squadron sat in the classroom while Dunn explained the day's mission, a close ground support flight that would pit them against simulated ground to air missiles, simulated small arms fire, and very unsimulated rough terrain. Dunn pointed at a hologram of the target area.

  "The enemy positions are down in this canyon," he said. "You'll have to proceed single file because there isn't room for more than one fighter at a time — the canyon walls are only a hundred yards apart, so you'll be flying a very narrow corridor. The GAMs are here, here, here, here, and here." He turned to face them. "Plus a surprise or two. Be very alert down there, because this will be the hardest mission you've flown yet. In order to get in and out without getting hit, you'll need to stay above Mach 1, or very close to it."

  Johnny frowned at the holo, wondering if whoever had planned this one was mad.

  "No missiles on this one," Dunn said. "The exhaust will queer your vision and you won't have room to maneuver. So you'll be releasing grav bombs, five hundred kilos each. The targets are automated, so no one on the ground will be hurt. Any questions?"

  "Sir!" Johnny was on his feet, as they were expected to do. "What about crosswinds, sir?"

  Dunn scowled as he always did when hit by a question.

  "Negligible," he said.

  Johnny stared at the holo and remained standing.

  "Sir, begging the major's pardon, sir, but — that's desert terrain, sir. It's spring there right now, and …"

  Dunn was in his face before he could finish.

  "What is your problem, Lincoln!" he bellowed. "I said the winds were negligible! Are you calling me a liar?"

  "Sir, no, sir! But …"

  "ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR, LINCOLN!"

  Johnny flushed, his blood pressure soaring off the chart.

  "Sir, no, sir!"

  "Sit down, Lincoln! And shut the fuck up!"

  Johnny remained standing. Dunn had turned away, but now whirled on him again.

  "WHAT IS YOUR GODDAMN PROBLEM, MISTER!"

  "Sir, begging …"

  "What — is — your — problem?"

  "Sir, exactly what does the major mean by 'negligible', sir!"

  Dunn's face changed colors twice. "Get a dictionary!" he snarled.

  "Sir, how many knots, sir?"

  "Negligible, goddammit! Look it up!"

  "Sir, is that one knot, sir? Two knots, sir? Ten kn …"

  Dunn slammed his pointer to the floor.

  "That's it, Lincoln! You're grounded! Return to quarters immediately! Do not leave your quarters until I send for you! I'm filing charges of insubordination. I won't have you questioning my judgment! Do you hear me? Get out!"

  Johnny stood his ground for one more heartbeat, then spun on his heel and left the classroom. He'd barely reached his quarters when Joanne Lewis arrived, staring at him in wonder.

  "What was that all about?" she asked.

  "You heard him." Johnny was shaking. "That was all bullshit! I'm willing to bet the winds across that canyon are hitting forty or fifty knots this time of year. That strike will be suicide if we go in there thinking it's a balmy day."

  "How do you know?" she aske
d, sitting down beside him.

  "I don't," he admitted. "Not for sure. But I learned to fly in the American Southwest. I know what the desert is like, and how the winds act in the springtime. If you aren't ready for it, they'll carry you away."

  She sat silent for several seconds.

  "So what happens now?" she asked finally.

  "For you, nothing. Looks like I'm facing a star-court."

  * * *

  Capt. Carver took the mission down to Terra while Dunn began the datawork necessary to get Johnny Lincoln II out of his squadron. Barely two hours after the squadron departed, Dunn came for Johnny and led him to the office of the Judge Advocate General. A board had been convened and things moved swiftly. Johnny was advised of his rights, referred to counsel, and spent thirty minutes explaining the situation to the lawyer who would defend him. She was a tiny Japanese woman named Otari, and didn't seem terribly sympathetic.

  "I think Major Dunn has something against me," Johnny told her. "It seems to be personal."

  She gave him a flat stare. "If that's your defense, you'll be going home in about thirty minutes. They simply will not buy it."

  He shrugged. "Then I guess I'm screwed."

  "Before you give up so easily, why don't you tell me what happened?"

  Johnny wondered if this would mean the end of his Space Force career, or if he would simply receive disciplinary action.

  Either way, Dunn would be out of his life.

  The board reconvened and Dunn put on his case. It took him only a few minutes to explain that Johnny had been a maverick from the beginning, that he'd resisted Dunn's best efforts to teach him the safe and proper way to fly, and that today he'd overstepped all bounds of propriety.

  "Why don't you simply wash him out?" asked a member of the board when Dunn had finished. "Isn't a star-court a bit drastic under the circumstances?"

  "No, sir," Dunn said smoothly. "In Lincoln's case, it's a matter of extreme insubordination. His arrogance is a danger to other pilots, and the only proper course, in my view, is to completely expel him from the service. Frankly, I'm surprised he survived boot camp."

  Otari was allowed to cross-examine Dunn and she produced computer files that suggested Johnny was an exceptional pilot. How did he explain that?

  "I don't dispute that he is a skilled pilot," Dunn said. "I do dispute the notion of letting him fly in combat when other men depend on him for their safety. He might be adequate in civilian life, but he is unfit for combat and unfit for the Fighter Service. I've worked with him for several weeks and I simply cannot get through to him. His insubordination today proves that."

  "Major Dunn," Otari said, "do you or do you not know what wind conditions are over the target today?"

  "The winds are negligible," Dunn replied. "We've struck that target numerous times in the past, with minimal wind."

  "I appreciate that," she said. "But do you have a weather report for today?"

  Dunn stared at her a moment, then shook his head.

  "No, I do not."

  With Dunn's case complete, Otari took over and called Johnny to the witness stand.

  "Pilot Trainee Lincoln," Otari asked, "have you at any time been insubordinate to Major Dunn or any of his training officers?"

  "No, Ma'am."

  "Have you ever disobeyed an order?"

  "No, Ma'am."

  "Have you ever refused an order?"

  "No, Ma'am."

  "Have you ever been disrespectful to Major Dunn or any of his training officers?"

  "No, Ma'am."

  Otari walked away for a moment and consulted some documents at the defense table. She turned back to face Johnny.

  "Pilot Trainee Lincoln, why were you reluctant to accept Major Dunn's assurance that winds over the target area were negligible?"

  "I've been flying aircraft since I was twelve years old, and spacecraft since I was fifteen. I simply needed more information, Ma'am."

  "What kind of information?"

  "A weather report if one was available. If not, then at least an estimated wind speed and direction, ambient temperatures, which can affect thermals — that sort of thing."

  "Wouldn't you classify the word 'negligible' as a valid assessment of wind conditions?"

  "Yes, Ma'am, to a certain extent. I mean, the term is used frequently in that context, but Major Dunn told us we'd be flying the tunnel through a narrow canyon to reach the target. Under those conditions, a more precise report of conditions would really help."

  "Pilot Trainee Lincoln, how many flight hours do you have?"

  "I'd have to check my log, Ma'am, but I'm getting close to six thousand."

  Otari's almond eyes widened dramatically. "Six thousand hours? Six — thousand hours of flying time?"

  "Yes, Ma'am, almost."

  "That’s …" She quickly did the math. "Pilot Trainee Lincoln, that's two hundred and fifty days in a cockpit!" Otari was truly shocked.

  "Yes, Ma'am. It would have been more, but I was in school …"

  Otari stared at him a moment, then recovered quickly.

  "How many of those flight hours are atmospheric as opposed to space flight?"

  "Most of them. Almost five thousand."

  "How many of those five thousand hours were spent flying over terrain similar to the terrain for today's mission?"

  "Objection!" Major Dunn said. "Pilot Trainee Lincoln has never seen or flown over the coordinates of today's mission."

  Otari spun around. "With the board's indulgence. Major Dunn has just made an assertion. Pilot Trainee Lincoln has almost six thousand hours of flight time, dating back to the age of twelve. How does Major Dunn know where Pilot Trainee Lincoln flew during all those hours?"

  The presiding officer leveled his gaze at Dunn.

  "Major Dunn?"

  Dunn looked flustered, opened his mouth to speak, then waved his hand.

  "Let me rephrase the objection. I've seen no evidence that Lincoln has visited the target area."

  "Very well. The objection is sustained. You may proceed, Captain."

  "Pilot Trainee Lincoln," Otari said, "have you seen or flown over the location of today's mission?"

  "No, Ma'am."

  "In that case, do you have any valid reason to be concerned about the weather conditions there?"

  "I believe so, Ma'am. The mission briefing suggested that it's a desert region."

  "And what does that mean to you?"

  "It means extreme temperatures and sometimes volatile winds."

  Otari paused dramatically before her next question.

  "Pilot Trainee Lincoln, have you flown over that kind of terrain before?"

  "Yes, Ma'am. I live in Colorado. I learned to fly over mountain terrain, and I ranged south into the deserts of Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and west into Nevada. I've spent a lot of time flying in those conditions."

  "Are there other considerations?"

  "Yes, Ma'am. It's springtime there right now."

  "Over the target area?"

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "What does that mean to you?"

  "It often means high, gusting winds which can shift direction without warning. You get extreme highs and lows as the temperature changes."

  "No further questions."

  Otari returned to her seat. The presiding officer looked at Dunn.

  "Do you wish to ask the witness any questions, Major?"

  Dunn stared at Johnny for a long moment. Clearly he wanted to say something, but apparently thought better of it.

  "No, sir."

  "Very well. Do you have any final remarks?"

  "Yes, sir. We've flown that same training mission for years. The weather has always been moderate and we've never had an accident. The bottom line, sir, is that trainees need to have some faith in their training officers. We are here to teach them, to help them. Our purpose is not to put their lives in jeopardy, but to teach them survival skills. Lincoln doesn't understand that. I submit that he has no place in the Fighter Service."
<
br />   Dunn sat down.

  "Captain Otari?"

  Otari stood and faced the board.

  "In my opinion," she said, "there is nothing insubordinate in Pilot Trainee Lincoln's attitude. It would appear that he asked a valid question, based on extensive personal experience, and when the answer was unsatisfactory, he required further details. After all, it was his life at risk. To discipline him would be an error. To refer him to a star-court would be an injustice."

  That was it. The board adjourned to consider the situation, and Otari took Johnny to lunch. They were back an hour later.

  The board members gazed expressionlessly at their notes, as if they had nothing else on their minds. Dunn glared at Johnny, but Johnny refused to meet his eyes. Though outwardly calm, it tortured him to think his career could end so quickly, and for such a stupid reason.

  One board member was missing, and they waited. He arrived ten minutes late and hastily conferred with the other members. Faces paled, eyes turned toward Dunn and Johnny, and after a shaken moment the room was called to order.

  "I'm afraid we have a disturbing announcement to make," the presiding judge said in an uneven voice. "Just moments ago word was received from Captain Jerome Carver of Training Squadron 3173." He faltered, and Johnny frowned as a terrible premonition struck him. No! Please, no!

  "There has been an accident," the chairman said finally. "It appears …" He consulted a handwritten note. "… that Pilot Trainee Phillip Martin was the first pilot to make a pass at the target. Crosswinds were estimated to be in excess of fifty knots …"

  Johnny's head dropped into both hands. Nooooooooooooo!

  "… consequently blown into the canyon wall and exploded. Pilot Trainee Martin and Gunner Trainee Wilson died in the crash."

  The chairman looked up, his eyes fixed on Dunn.

  "It would appear, Major Dunn, that Pilot Trainee Lincoln's concern over the crosswinds in that canyon were indeed justified. The petition for a star-court is denied."

  Dunn was on his feet, confusion in his eyes. But the chairman wasn't finished.