$BChapter $B1 $B– $B.$B.$B. $BWith $Ba $BSingle $BStep


$BFlight $BDeck$B, $BTCS $BWellington

$BDeep $BSpace$B, $BOberan $BSystem

$B1203 $Bhours $B(CST)$B, $B2669.161


"The Confederation must be worse off than I thought if this is the rubbish the brass is letting in the cockpit now!" bellowed a prim and polished looking senior officer, pacing in front of the assembled young pilots.

"If any of you survive your first training exercise, I will be at a loss for words!" he continued.

2nd Lieutenant David Markham found himself wondering what they had done to deserve this treatment. No sooner had he and the twenty nine other freshly minted Lieutenants from the Confederation's various officer candidate school programs stepped off the shuttles, been called to attention, and heard the words "at ease" than what he could only assume was his new wing commander had launched into an obviously well-rehearsed tirade. 

Apparently, David and his fellow graduates had not only pulled duty in what had to be the backwater to end all backwaters that was the Oberan System, but it seemed they would have the pleasure of serving under at least one superior with a planet-sized chip planted firmly on his shoulders. The only thing the older officer needed was a riding crop and he could easily have played the part of the cliche, hard-assed, arrogant, second-rate commander in every bad war holo-vid David had ever seen. 

"My name is Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell. I am, regretfully, your Wing Commander for the duration of your stay aboard this vessel," the officer announced.

A grin spread across David's face, as the slight stress the older man placed on his rank and the insignia of a Lieutenant Colonel shining on his uniform betrayed what could be a partial reason for the man's sour attitude.  

"You have been placed under my charge onboard this ship to better prepare you for the fight against the Kilrathi," Mitchell continued. "In the thirty-five years since the beginning of the Kilrathi War, the Confederation has never been in such dire need of well-trained pilots."

"Then what the hell are we doing on this bucket of bolts?" whispered Thad "Champ" Cooper, the undisputed spoiled brat/jock of David's OCS training program. A few pilots within earshot of Thad snickered in agreement at the comment. 

David sighed as he took in the flight deck of the TCS Wellington, finding himself in the regrettable position of agreeing with his fellow pilot. The Yorktown-class light carrier was a nearly century-old dinosaur, a throwback to the days before the Kilrathi War when carriers were used mainly for light reconnaissance duty and space-to-planet ops. From what he could tell from the non-existent paintjob, missing access panels, and bare conduits, this ship could very well have been one of the first off the assembly line. The newest heavy carriers in the Confed Fleet were generations more advanced, and even the existing attack carriers were refitted and updated with modern technology. 

The Wellington and her sister ships were not so lucky, usually residing somewhere near the bottom of the upgrade and resupply list. This old girl appeared to have just been pulled out of mothballs, its decades old equipment looking quite ancient when compared to the F-27L Arrow fighters undergoing maintenance on the deck. David's attention returned back to his terse superior as Mitchell stopped pacing. 

"Over seven hundred pilots, a lot of them friends, fought and died valiantly in the Battle for Earth; pilots who were worth ten of each of you," Mitchell suddenly spat out. He himself seemed surprised by the sudden outburst. After smoothing the front of his uniform and appearing to regain his composure, the wing commander of the Wellington resumed pacing, as well as continuing his remarks. 

"To fill the ranks, the brass has instituted drastic measures. The Officer Candidate School programs of academic institutions throughout the Confederation have been kicked into high gear. Your classes have been accelerated and the usual flight schools and 'on-the-job training' that was to be your next steps to truly becoming officers has been combined into a two month, if you'll pardon the term, 'crash course' onboard a Confederation Naval vessel. Following that two month period, if anyone is left alive, officers will be permanently assigned to the frontlines, where they will no doubt fight fiercely, but briefly."

David found his mind drifting to the events of the past few months, realizing now where another portion of Colonel Mitchell's seemingly immediate contempt for them stemmed. The Battle of Terra had almost sounded the death knell for humanity. Prince Thrakhath and the Kilrathi Fleet had come within seconds of turning Earth into a lifeless, uninhabitable wasteland. Despite the fact that the Confederation was made up of hundreds of worlds and a few races, that one blow would have effectively cut out the heart of the Terran Confederation. All those assembled on this flight deck could do was watch and wait at their respective OCS programs on distant planets, light years away from assisting those fighting for their survival. If it hadn't been for Admiral Tolwyn, a hastily-assembled fleet of still-intact warships, a bunch of crazy and damn brave Marines, and the sacrifice of over seven-hundred pilots, David knew he would not be standing on the flight deck of this ship today, being insulted for circumstances he could not change. 

"You few," Colonel Mitchell continued pacing in front of the formation, oblivious to the growing resentment the assembled pilots were already harboring for their new CO, "who have somehow been labeled the top prospects in your respective OCS classes, have been singled out to engage in your two months of training onboard a real Confederation carrier in a real wartime setting, instead of the usual escort warship. To increase the odds that you rookies might live to see another day, you will be separated into three junior squadrons, each containing a few veteran officers on rotation from the front who will act as your superiors. Also, this carrier will be under the watchful eye of the Hellscream Hellcat squadron. These veteran pilots will protect you and the Wellington for the duration of your training."

"Real wartime setting?!?" Thad muttered under his breath. "The lowest-born Cat privateer wouldn't set one matted paw in this sector."

Again, a few pilots within earshot of Thad chuckled at his comment, but David's jaw began to tighten. Like every officer candidate throughout the Confederation, David had worked hard to get where he was. He and other graduates here today had spent long hours pouring over Kilrathi psychology texts, knew fighter technical specifications backwards and forwards, and had basically lived in the simulator room. Thad was the exception to this rule. Confederation OCS class ratings were a matter of public record. A brief examination of these reports would afford no reason why 2nd Lieutenant Thad Cooper deserved to be here among the top graduates . . . except maybe that his father, Senator Henry Cooper, just happened to be on the board of the Senate Committee for Military Expenditures. 

Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell's closing remarks broke through David's growing annoyance. "You will find bunk assignments and to which squadron you have been assigned in the computer system. Each of you will need to report to your squadron CO by 1500 hours. Flight Ops begin at 1600 hours."

Colonel Mitchell came to a stop in front of the formation and gestured to the Arrow being wheeled to an elevator across the flight deck, an annoyed look etched on his face. "And ladies and gentlemen, these fine pieces of machinery cost millions of credits each. Please make sure you bring them back in one piece." He began to climb the steps up to the Flight Control Center. He reached the top of the stairs, looked out into the crowd of young officers and slowly shook his head in what could only pass for disgust. 

"Dismissed!" Mitchell shouted before turning and stepping into Flight Control.

With that, the flight deck erupted as the assembled pilots began speaking all at once, quickly moving towards the shuttles, each attempting to be the first to find their gear.

"Compassionate guy," the familiar female Lieutenant next to David observed with a smile.

He turned towards the slim speaker, the only female graduate of his OCS program to join David and Thad on the ship. 

"Real motivational speaker," David grinned. "I'm ready to follow him to the gates of Hell. How about you, Angela?"

2nd Lieutenant Angela "Panzer" DiMarco's smile turned a little more sinister. "Yeah, and I think I'd kick him right through once we got there . . . Champ, too," she answered.

David laughed to himself as he found his duffel and headed for the nearest computer terminal to find his bunk assignment. An old broken-down ship, stationed in the dead-end of space, and led by an arrogant and callous wing commander . . . an assignment doesn't start off any better than that.


$BSleeping $BQuarters$B, $BTCS $BWellington

$BDeep $BSpace$B, $BOberan $BSystem

$B1423 $Bhours $B(CST)


After a few wrong turns, David had finally found the sleeping quarters his new squadron occupied. As he finished stowing his gear in the locker bearing his callsign, he glanced at the wall-mounted chronometer. His assigned meeting time with his new squadron CO, Major Baws, was fast approaching and a new ship assignment, no matter how old and well-known the ship was, did not make finding ones way around very simple. 

As the blast doors of the squadron sleeping quarters opened to reveal the pilot lounge, David wondered with a chuckle what designer had thought it a great idea to place pilot's bunks in such close proximity to a ready source of alcohol. He then remembered just how old the carrier he was aboard was, which probably meant there weren't three rooms, save the bridge, flight deck and engine room, which still housed the original designed purpose. Floyd, one of David's OCS classmates, just returning from his visit with Major Baws, had informed them that their sleeping quarters were reserved for the regular fighter squadron on the Wellington during combat duty. David shrugged to himself. If it was good enough for the big boys he guessed it would be good enough for him.

As David picked his way through the scattered sets of tables and chairs in the lounge, a regretfully recognizable voice rang out above the lively Rockero music piped through the speaker system. 

"Yiiiiiick!! You'd think a ship as ancient as this one would have an equally ancient scotch onboard," "Champ" Cooper hissed from his seat at the bar. "I can't tell if I'm supposed to drink it or throw it into the fuel tank of my fighter!" he concluded loudly.

Champ obnoxiously laughed at his own cleverness as the less than amused bartender moved on to serve the next patron. David slowly shook his head and continued towards the elevator. Along the way he spotted a familiar face sitting at a table of pilots obviously having some words about their annoying cohort at the bar.

"One day that jerk will finally get what's coming to him, I just hope I'm there to see it happen," 'Panzer' DiMarco commented from her seat at the table, her slightly disturbing smile spreading across her face. 

David chuckled and clasped his friend on the shoulder as he passed.

"Just make sure he's not in your gunsights when you see it happen, Angela," he kidded. "It'd be a damn waste of a frontline fighter craft and I've heard a court martial isn't a walk in the park, either." 

The pilots gathered at the table chuckled at the comment as David continued towards the elevator doors. 

Panzer turned halfway around in her chair. "I make no promises," she called after him, her menacing grin a bit more playful this time.

David returned the smile as the elevator doors closed, blocking out the new round of laughter erupting from the table. 

David rapped his knuckles against the metal door leading to his squadron CO's office. He found it strange that the door did not have a chime to announce the presence of a visitor. 

"Enter," came the terse reply from within.

As soon as he opened the door he understood why the "office" had no way to announce guests. The space must have been a small storage locker in another life. The thin officer behind the tiny desk took up most of the room in the "office" and the presence of a visitor and a chair for them to sit in made the room positively claustrophobic. 

"Markham?" the thin man inquired.

"Yes, sir," David replied, saluting. "2nd Lt. David 'Sandman' Markham". 
 
"Sandman?" the older man asked as his eyes darted toward a small dossier that took up the entire surface area of the desk. 

A sheepish grin crept onto David's face.

"Well, technically, sir, it's 'Kitty Sandman'," he replied.

The thin officer leaned back in his seat, hands folded behind his head.

"I know I'm going to regret this, but I'll ask anyway," he admitted. "Why?"

Sandman prepared to launch into a story he had told too many times already in his short career. He recalled how he had grown up on a planet renown for its never-ending beaches and this, coupled with his tendency to consistently arrive late for his first class of the day, earned him the nickname 'Sandman' from his fellow officer candidates. The callsign stuck till it was time to formalize their monikers just a few weeks ago. A Lt. Sanders already flew under the callsign 'Sandman' and Space Forces' policy would not allow David to use it. Therefore, as a joke, someone suggested 'Kitty Sandman', referencing David's ability to put Kilrathi to bed permanently in the simulator. Thinking highly of it at the moment, David had gone ahead and decided it a good idea to use the nickname. It was apparently funny at the time, but weeks later, David was already regretting the choice. 

"Well," the older officer began, "I have to admit . . . 'Kitty Sandman' is really a horrible callsign for a pilot and, unfortunately, right now it's your official one."

"Yes, sir," David replied, growing even more self-conscious about his ill-chosen moniker. 

"But it is also a mouthful," the older officer continued, leaning forward onto his desk. "So, Lt. Markham, I hereby dub you plain 'Sandman' for everyday use. Do you have any problems with that?"

A smile quickly returned to David's face.

"No, sir, I do not," he responded proudly.

The officer gestured for David to sit down, to which the young pilot complied.

"Now that I know way too much about your past, we can get down to business," the officer began. "My name is Major Kenny "Kettle" Baws. While we seem to be sharing, my callsign comes from the fact that I apparently have a small temper problem," Baws smiled slightly at the comment. "Otherwise, I'm not that bad of a guy."

"You have been assigned to the Diamondbacks junior squadron, commanded by yours truly and assisted by Second Lieutenants "Ninja" Crisologo and "Assassin" Chaplin. Both of them have the same rank as you, but they're veterans of the Battle of Earth, so listen to what they say. I also serve as executive officer of the entire flight wing under Lt. Col. Mitchell, whom you met just a few hours ago." 

David's facial expression must have betrayed his immediate dislike for their wing commander, as Major Baws snickered before continuing.

"I know he seems like a pompous hard-ass," the Major began, "but he's very old school. He believes you boys have something to prove to him before he considers you worth his time . . . a sentiment that I actually share on some level."

Baws' eyes clouded over. The distance behind them seemed well beyond the years of the older officer, who actually seemed very young for his high rank to David. 

"Most of the instructor pilots onboard the Wellington participated in the Battle of Terra," Baws spoke from somewhere far outside the room. "They watched and listened as friends were cooked alive in their cockpits, often unable to lend the slightest bit of support or assistance."

Baws' focus ripped back to the present and the young officer sitting across from him.

"What we lived through instantly initiated us into a brotherhood of sorts," Baws continued the lecture. "This is going to seem unfair to newbie pilots such as yourself at times, but the bar of acceptance into the pilot 'community' has been unintentionally raised. You must prove yourself before anyone on this tub, or any ship in the Confederation for that matter, will take you seriously."

Baws casually leaned back in his chair again before continuing, a slight grin replacing the stern expression that had been rooted to his face a few moments before.

"That would be partially the reason for Colonel Mitchell's less than enthusiastic greeting this morning. Of course, the brass passing him over for promotion to full bird and a fleet carrier wing command of his own probably doesn't sit too well on his stomach, either."

David returned his squadron CO's easy grin. He believed he was going to enjoy being a Diamondback.

"Anyway," Major Baws shook his head, straightening himself up in his chair and grabbing the folder on the desk, "your advanced training schedule is going to be Hell on you for the next two months. Flying three sorties a day, everyday with me, one of my two instructors, or a combination thereof, you will be learning how to survive while dishing out some serious pain in a few of the Confederation's top fighter aircraft." 

Baw's shifted some documents around in David's personnel file, looking for a certain page. 

"Ah," the Major finally concluded, finding the information he was after, "looks like you are one of the few who gets to begin their training immediately."

An unconscious grin spread across David's face. It had already been far too long since he had been strapped behind the stick of a fighter, simulated or otherwise. The five days of transport and shuttle rides through the void of space had been torture. 

"You'll be taking your first training hop with me in an Arrow at 1600 hours," Major Baws concluded, "You had better get your gear ready. I'll see you in the briefing room in half an hour."

"Yes, sir!" David loudly responded, a little too loudly he found for such a small office.

Baws winced and smiled. "We'll soon see if you can keep up that enthusiasm throughout your entire training schedule," he challenged. "Dismissed."

The young pilot actually made his way out of the office door before cracking a huge, giddy smile. 2nd Lieutenant David 'Sandman' Markham, newest member of the Diamondback squadron of the TCS Wellington, all but ran towards his locker, ready to take on his first mission in the long-running Kilrathi War.
