by PJ Strebor
“Very well,” Lieutenant Hinton said, “proceed at one-third to training area Beta seven.”
“Beta seven at one-third, roger.”
The Ithacan system could not have been better tailored to the needs of training command. The system had few planets and an abundance of asteroid fields. It contained nothing of value and had zero occupation, making the area perfect for training command’s purpose.
The training continued, and each day Nathan looked forward to the growing challenges.
CHAPTER 5
Date: 20th October, 321 ASC.
Position: Anchored in space, two AUs inside the aphelion of the Ithacan system.
Status: Fighter training, ongoing.
After a month of intense training, Commander Worsfold had pushed his students through phase two without reprieve or mercy. Two, and in some cases, when he found himself in a particularly brutal frame of mind, three flight sessions per day were followed with a sixty- to ninety-minute debrief after each sortie. The murderous four-hour sessions and remorseless schedule had exhausted both instructors and students alike.
The students were constantly reminded that space was a dangerous place, but none more so than within the boundaries of the Tunguska Fault. However, if those who plied her oceans showed due respect, she would not kill them. Generally speaking.
Nathan kicked the port mag plating so hard that his starboard dorsal lifted dramatically.
“That’s a little excessive, don’t you think?” Lieutenant Hinton asked.
“Yes.” Better to overcompensate than not.
“How did you know to adjust so quickly?”
“I felt it through the seat of my flight suit, Ma’am,” Nathan said. “A class three hyperspace fluctuation. Better known by real pilots as an eddy three.”
“Very good.”
“I caught the edge of an eddy four yesterday when I was out with Skipper. Hmm, interesting. I’ve heard that a class five is ah … intimidating.”
“That’s an understatement a Bret would be proud of. Your EW sensors should, under normal circumstances, pick up eddies one to three well before they get close enough to cause any problems. It’s the fours and fives you have to stay alert for. They are not as powerful, but by virtue of being undetectable they can be far more dangerous. If you can sense them beforehand, as you just did, then you’re ahead of the curve.”
This area of Ithacan space had been specifically chosen for the purpose of sharpening the trainees’ instincts. The most damaged sector of the system had quickly earned a suitable nickname: the Diarrhea Derby. It could not have been better designed for the purpose of training young pilots to develop their burgeoning intuition. There were worse places within the torn fabric of Tunguska, but this area had been deemed to be quite sufficient to test the grommits’ mettle. Worsfold had read the riot act to all students and instructors about adhering to safety protocols within this potentially deadly environment.
Nathan sensed the next eddy, a strength two, and made a minor pitch adjustment to compensate.
“That’s more like it,” Lieutenant Hinton said.
“Worsfold to Epsilon flight,” the commander’s voice cut in. “Instructors, take your charges back to the boat. I will trap aboard first and assess your feeble attempts at landing. Worsfold out.”
Twenty minutes later, Nathan maneuvered into the approach pattern. Training on the Roof had finished after two weeks of successful exercises. They had spent the last five days in phase two, the far more intimidating Maw. He had made a number of dead slow traps into its boat bay without difficulty. Nathan would not be surprised if the commander upped the tempo in a week or so.
“Epsilon One, LSO. I have you on the beam, twenty clicks out.”
“LSO, Epsilon One. Roger,” Nathan replied.
In a few weeks he would be expected to do a fast trap into the Maw.
“Epsilon One, LSO. I have you on the beam, ten kilometers out. Secure your engines and prepare for braking.”
“LSO, Epsilon One. Roger. Securing stealth engines.”
Nathan shut down the drives and lowered his undercarriage. If he received a wave-off, for any reason, his mag plating could maneuver him away from Chiron. Secure engines, lower landing gear and decelerate in preparation for trapping aboard. All standard.
“Epsilon One, LSO.” An unaccustomed pause. “Be advised, you are not to decelerate your boat. Today’s exercise is a fast trap.” The LSO’s halting tone confirmed his feelings on the subject.
Nathan’s reply caught in his throat.
“LSO, Epsilon One instructor,” Hinton said. “Say again?”
“Epsilon One, LSO. Affirmative, Lieutenant, fast trap aboard. Top Hook gets the honor.”
“LSO, Epsilon One instructor. Roger.” Lieutenant Hinton switched to internal comm. “Someone thinks you can do this, but if you don’t feel up to it, say so now.”
Nathan had no doubt who “someone” was. The Maw, although twice the size of a standard monitor landing bay, looked very, very small indeed. Nathan chuckled. A silly response to stress that he simply could not help.
“I’ll give it a try,” he drawled. Nathan could practically sense his instructor cringing into the back seat.
“SMC, straps.”
The head, arm and leg restraints pinned him to the combat chair so he could move only his feet and fingers. The restraints failed to provide the hoped-for reassurance.
“Epsilon One, LSO. I have you on the beam, two thousand meters from the boat.”
“LSO, Epsilon One. Roger.”
So, the commander wants to fast trap me into the Maw after five days, does he? Well, fine. Bloody fine. I’ll give you your kilo of flesh, you miserable old …
“Epsilon One, LSO. I have you on the beam and in the groove.”
“LSO, Epsilon One. Roger.”
A fast trap did not leave a pilot time for indecision. You either did it or you did not.
Perspective, it’s only a matter of perspective.
If he could fast trap onto the Roof, he could fast trap anywhere. Any doubts were only in his head.
Only in your head, only in your head.
The approach crosshairs glowed green. He remained firmly on the beam, all his attention concentrated on keeping the crosshairs in the green. Thankfully, Chiron’s engines were closed down, so there should be no problem from her burble. Unless, of course, he or the ship struck a mild eddy at the wrong moment.
Only in your head.
A trickle of sweat ran down his face as the TF-51 screamed through the environmental force field into the standard gravity of the boat bay. His skids struck the deck and an instant later he plowed into the arrester field.
The LSO came back to him, palpable relief in his voice. “You snagged the third wire and were right on the center line. Well done, Epsilon One.”
“Thank you, LSO. Request permission to taxi to the hangar area.”
“Permission granted.”
And fuck you, Worsfold.
CHAPTER 6
Date: 20th October, 321 ASC.
Position: Chiron. The Warren.
Status: Down time.
Nathan spent ten minutes showering away the sweat from his first fast trap into the Maw. While he changed into a fresh flight suit, his sense of accomplishment flared suddenly against his rage.
I like a challenge as much as the next pilot, but fuck me, what the hell was Worsfold thinking?
He forced such thoughts out of his mind as he stepped into the Warren. The roomy saloon had been set aside for the exclusive use of the trainee pilots. A large area containing comfortable furnishings, recreational games, access to food, fruit juices and, of course, coffee. A place to relax and reflect after another challenging day with their instructors. Compared with a monitor’s tiny officers’ wardroom, this represented an indulgent level of luxury.
Nathan nodded to a few of the pilots from Kappa Flight who occupied the starboard side of the Warren. They were a good lot, and he knew many of th
em quite well from the academy. Still, they were competitors, and would become even more competitive as time progressed. Everyone vied for status within the flight standings. The higher a pilot’s standing, the better their chances of gaining a berth on a monitor.
The greatest fighter training school truism held that more pilots graduated than could be accommodated aboard the limited number of monitor escort boats (MEBs). Within such a super-competitive environment, friendships were strained — and occasionally compromised. Although ambivalent on the subject, Nathan could not ignore the purpose-designed combative nature of the standings.
There were no official flight leaders in either Epsilon or Kappa Flights. However, one person usually stood out in any group, who would often be sought for their approval or advice, somewhat akin to a big brother or sister. In the case of Kappa Flight, Ensign Janine Gilchrist had become the senior sibling.
Nathan joined her in the line waiting to use the fruit juice dispenser. About the same height as Nathan, she wore her auburn hair in a bun that exposed her long, graceful neck. Janine had proved to be the undisputed star of the academy’s class of 320 ASC.
Janine turned and smiled with her eyes as well as her perfectly-formed mouth. Nathan could imagine her charming a Delosian viper out of a tree.
“Nathan,” she said, lightly touching his arm, “so good to see you.”
Nathan returned her smile, silently chiding himself for allowing her to work her charms on him.
“Janine,” he said, bowing slightly. “How goes the training?”
“Great!” Her enthusiasm, for a change, appeared to be laced with concern. “In fact, I would like to talk to you about something.” Her tone became low, guarded. “Will you join me?”
Nathan nodded, and after they both filled their cups with fresh fruit juice, Janine selected an unoccupied table as close to the dead center of the room as possible. She took a seat on the starboard side, the Kappas’ side, leaving the port for Nathan. Soon they would be battling head to head for the much prized Ellison trophy. For now, they were couple of old friends having a talk.
“I have a concern,” Janine began, “and I would appreciate your input.”
Nathan nodded.
“We lead the flight ratings, so if you can’t understand my concerns, then I will be left in a bit of a quandary.” Their heads were close to touching and their voices hushed.
“Just spit it out, Jan — what’s the problem?”
Janine glanced around, took a long breath and stared at him with an intensity Nathan had never seen from her. “It’s about the commander.”
Nathan nodded, pleased to be in the role of sage advisor for a change.
“This goes no further, Nathan. All right?”
He nodded again.
“I know you’ve noticed what we all have with regard to the commander. I don’t have a problem with an instructor being a hard case.” She snorted. “We had a few of those back at the Mount, didn’t we? I really don’t like to say this, but I think Worsfold might be losing it.” Jan stared at him for a long moment. “What do you think?”
The thought had crossed Nathan’s mind on more than one occasion. Today’s little stunt did nothing to help banish the disturbing thought.
“You seem a little rattled, Jan. What happened?”
Her smile became sad and reminiscent. “I never could fool you, could I, Nathan? All right.” She moved closer, and her breath touched his cheek. “Skipper ordered me to fast trap aboard today.”
Nathan felt as if a buffalo had stomped on his stomach. So much for the honor of the Top Hook.
“Yes, I thought that might get a reaction,” she said, around a tight smile. “He begins by treating us like plebes, then pushes us as if there’s no tomorrow. Does that sound to you like the actions of a stable mind?”
“Perhaps you should be flattered he considered you so capable.”
“I almost soiled my flight suit.”
Nathan smiled. “Me too.”
Janine’s head snapped back. “He fast trapped you too?” she hissed.
“Maybe he fast trapped everyone.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Nathan shrugged. Surely Worsfold had not lost his mind? He had turned hard and unreasonable in recent months, but did that necessarily translate into insanity? Over the years Nathan had fallen into a habit with Janine. Whenever she spoke her mind, he could not help but play the part of the devil’s advocate.
“I’m in the same position as you, Jan,” Nathan said. “I don’t have the faintest idea what’s going on. Perhaps this is his style.”
“Nathan, his style could get us killed. I didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that both my instructor and the LSO were thoroughly unimpressed. We need to do something about this.”
“Assuming you’re right, what do we do? We are student pilots. He’s the chief flight instructor. Do you want to take the matter directly to him, or go over his head to the captain?”
Janine blinked a few times in rapid succession. “Do you think we should?”
Nathan sighed, then shook his head. “He’s a tremendous instructor. I learn more from him in one flight session than I do in a week with my usual instructor. And Emma Hinton is a great pilot. I can’t believe Worsfold is acting against our best interests.” He placed his hands flat on the table. “I am willing to stick with him a bit longer. I think he’s pushing us with a purpose in mind.” Nathan shrugged and smiled lazily. “At least I hope that’s the case.”
“So your suggestion is to do nothing and hope we survive the next two months. That doesn’t sound like the old Nathan Telford.”
“I don’t see Worsfold as a threat. He is pushing us because we are at the top of the rankings. I want to believe he’s trying to get the best out of us.” Nathan absently rubbed at the bump above his right eyebrow. “I’ll tell you what — if you want to take your concerns to him, I’ll back you.”
Nathan took a long drink of his cool fruit juice to soothe his parched throat.
Janine sat for some time, running her finger around the rim of her cup. She stared at him. “All right, I’ll leave it for the time being, but let us make a pact now. If either of us fails to live through this course, the other fronts the captain about Worsfold. Agreed?” Janine offered her hand to seal the deal.
Nathan shook it. “Deal.”
CHAPTER 7
Date: 5th December, 321 ASC.
Position: ANS Chiron, standing off the Andimilos Archipelago.
Status: Hares and Hounds.
No one complained about Worsfold’s brutal regime on the day the last of them completed phase three. The fast trap into the Needle, under full power. With Chiron’s engines stirring a mass of burble, the final exercise could not have been imagined when they had commenced flight training.
Worsfold’s relentless badgering had paid off, and every pilot in both Epsilon and Kappa flights had passed — as one comedian instructor put it — with flying colors, two weeks ahead of schedule.
The commander had smiled for the first time in months. The captain authorized the opening of the liquor cabinet. The Warren transformed into a suitable venue for a much-anticipated celebration.
Following a time-honored tradition, instructors were invited into their domain. Each trainee told a story about their primary instructor. Knowing better than to go too far, the grommits restricted the scope of their humorous anecdotes. In turn, the instructors returned the favor. Although the trainees cringed — when not laughing at one of their own — the harmless banter served its purpose.
During the tell-tale part of the evening, Worsfold made an appearance and joined them for a drink. His status as a living legend had been restored. He had eased up slightly on Nathan, but still expected him to do the impossible on the odd occasion.
The following day, the two flights went out separately with a fifteen-minute window between them. Trainees and instructors alike eagerly awaited the first full day of tactical fighter
interdiction training: old style dog-fighting the Corps called Hares and Hounds.
One-on-one TFI exercises were a critical component of flight training. With the primary flight training taking absolute priority, TFI had been sadly neglected. They had done more dog-fighting exercises in the last four days than they had in all of their flight training combined. Except, of course, when the ensigns managed to sneak some combat time in the sims.
After months of the mundane exercises, this phase of their training resulted in a unanimous chorus of approval. The adrenaline rush produced by the simulated combat sorties took hours to come down from.
Nathan had noted, with some concern, a change in some of the trainee pilots’ attitudes. It began with the odd comment, then a joke followed by a ceremonious puffing of the chest. Nothing he had encountered during his training scared him as much as having a wingman with god-like aspirations. They were an outstanding group of young pilots, but as Skipper had said on many occasions, there was no room in a combat sphere for a swollen head.
CHAPTER 8
Time: 10th December, 321 ASC.
Position: Planetoid Cos, Ithacan system.
Status: High gravity (advanced) atmospheric flight training.
Chiron’s trainee pilots had passed carrier qualification with two weeks to spare. Their reward for finishing training early was an ongoing series of tactical fighter interdiction exercises.
Chiron acted as an enemy capital ship and the grommits were given the task of penetrating her fighter screen and successfully attacking her. Some came close, but most were intercepted well before they breached Chiron’s defense envelope. Nevertheless, the experience had been invaluable. The age-old tactics learned at the academy had to be changed on the hop. Innovation became the key ingredient, and post mortems of the day’s unsuccessful sorties gleaned a new understanding of how tactical space warfare worked on a large scale. The instructors took time with their charges to discuss tactics, often into the wee hours of the morning. It recharged the trainees and gave them a renewed sense of wonder with regard to their new professions. The seasoning would come with time.
