$BIntroduction


$BShuttle $B326

$BOn $BApproach $Bto $BTCS $BHermes$B, $BBrimstone $BSystem

$B1536 $Bhours $B(CST)$B, $B2669.221


"This is your Captain Crazy Jane speaking," the shuttle pilot said over the intercom, "As you may have heard, there has been a change in plans. Fort Jackson is in no shape to accommodate us seeing as it's just been blown to pieces. We are currently en route directly to the Hermes. This is currently a combat zone, so if you all would do me the favour of sitting down, buckling up, and shutting up, I'll see if we can get there alive."

The revelation that Fort Jackson had been destroyed had roused Second Lieutenant David Markham, call sign Sandman, from his dark musings. Just one more twist in the insane story that has been my life these last few months, he thought. Sandman and his fellow shuttle passengers were supposed to have had a brief stay at Fort Jackson before being transferred to the Hermes. Now, they were forced to go directly to the Hermes while she was under siege, possibly right in the middle of a fierce fire fight.

Sandman looked around at the other people in the shuttle. Together, they were the eleven newest pilots in the Hermes air wing. There was Ninja and Assassin, his old instructors turned close comrades. His previous squad leader, Major Kenneth Baws, was the only senior officer among them. The others were pilots who had survived other skirmishes while their motherships had not. We're all warriors without a home, Sandman thought.

As the shuttle flew a holding pattern around the carrier waiting for landing, Sandman couldn't stop looking at the Hermes. He admired the entire ship from bow to stern. The Hermes was sleek, modern, and even beautiful. It was much easier on the eyes than the dilapidated old Wellington had been, and much more heavily armed. He thought of only one thing: that this carrier was made to wage war. This carrier had teeth that the Wellington had never dreamed of. Maybe this carrier had a chance.

The sarcastic voice spoke again over the shuttle's loudspeakers, "Touchdown. Thank you for flying Crazy Jane airlines. You'll find the exit to the left of this craft. And if you are mad because you didn't get peanuts on this flight, don't bother filing a complaint, because we don't care."

"Door opened, don't let it hit you in the butt on the way out" the shuttle pilot said as she equalized the internal atmosphere with that of the flight deck and opened the shuttle hatch. The doors opened with a mechanical whine culminating in a thunk as the mechanism locked into place. The ever familiar sound of techs hammering on fighters drifted through the open door. Sandman was surprised by how soothing he found the sounds to be. They were like music to his ears.

"What are you guys waiting for? Come on," Major Baws ordered. The new pilots stepped out of the shuttle, followed by the rest of the crew members being transferred to the Hermes.

There were two officers waiting for them as they disembarked. Both were still in flight suits and held their helmets in their arms. The first was a tall, sturdy man with a face that looked like it had been sandpapered many times over. His flight suit bore silver eagle insignias, designating him a full Colonel. But it was his eyes that were his most distinguishable feature; this man had the killer-instinct eyes of a true Been-There-Done-That combat veteran. This man was a living weapon.

"Major Kenneth Baws and company request permission to come aboard!" Major Baws and the rest of the new pilots stood at attention and saluted.

The Colonel returned the salute. "Welcome to the Hermes. I'm Colonel Shane Walker, your Wing Commander." Sandman noted the drawl and the twang of the Colonel's voice. It was from an area in North America called Texas. "My condolences about the Wellington. I did some time on her back when I got my wings." The Colonel paused for a moment, as if to savor a bit of nostalgia. So, thought Sandman, he was battle hardened but not beyond human feeling. How hard was it to hold on to one's humanity after so much killing?

Walker continued, his features tightening into a scowl. "I hope you will forgive the lack of a standard greeting, but I just got back in. This will have to do for a welcoming for now. You may have heard rumors of heavy losses in our frontline units." His expression made it cut-and-dry clear what he thought about rumors, rumor mills, and those who listened to them. "I will not dignify those rumors with confirmation or denial. However, you pilots are now the newest members of the Hermes Air Wing. You are front line pilots. You bear the weight of protecting Confed's home worlds. I expect you to act as such. I want people here who are going to be a part of the solution, not a part of the problem."

Walker strode down the line of new pilots in silence and looked each of them in the eyes briefly, evaluating what he saw. Sandman made every effort to meet his gaze without flinching. Walker's eyes were unreadable; Sandman couldn't tell if he looked upon him in approval or disappointment. Time would tell.

"Be sure to be at the pilot's briefing in five hours. Several of our fighters have already returned, and we have the bulk of our fighter wing due to land soon. We've just had a rather nasty encounter and there are plenty of loose ends that still need to be tied up. Don't expect to have a lot of time to settle in. We're going to liven up the situation around here very soon."

Walker gestured to the man who stood at his side. His bald head and bookish appearance was a stark contrast to the grizzled and slightly dangerous visage of Colonel Walker.

"This is my deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Klier. He has the squadron assignment for you new guys."

The Lieutenant Colonel took out a datapad and began to read the unit assignments.

"Second Lieutenant Markham?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You are assigned to the 811th Squadron. The Blood Hounds."

Klier continued, "Major Baws."

"Yes, sir?"

"The 811th needs a new squadron leader. You are it until you are dead, or I find someone else better."

"Yes, sir," Major Baws replied. Sandman was relieved to be flying under the command of Major Baws again. He felt the kind of loyalty towards the Major that any soldier would feel after following him through hell and back.

Sandman's interest perked as Lt. Colonel Klier started to call out the names of his friends, Assassin, and Ninja. To Sandman's distress, they were all assigned to different squadrons. Sandman chided himself for his childish fantasy that all of his friends would magically be assigned to his squadron and they would all live happily ever after. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that even with the presence of Major Baws, he was now helpless in a new unit, as if there was no wingman to cover his back.

"All right," Sandman's new Wing Commander began, "Remember the briefing at 2100. Till then, familiarize yourself with your new home. Now beat it. I've just killed a bunch of Cats and I need a rest." As the Colonel turned and walked away, Sandman noticed that the Colonel didn't really care for formalities. He also got the impression that Lt. Colonel Klier would have preferred the greater formality. Those two made an interesting pair.

The group of new pilots began to slowly disperse. Sandman wished there was time to go to the lounge with his old wing mates and have a drink, but that was clearly not an option with the Hermes gearing up for another fight.

"Lieutenant Markham," Major Baws spoke up, as if reading his mind, "Why don't you go check out your new bird?"

Such suggestions from superior officers were usually meant as orders and Sandman reluctantly obliged. He knew that Baws was trying to look out for him, to keep him focused on the present instead of the past, so he fought down the twinge of annoyance at having to give up one final fling before moving on. Sandman went to a terminal and downloaded the fighter assignments to his PDP. He was slated for hangar spot 57.

The signs of the recent fight were clearly visible. Damaged craft of the wing were now scattered all along the flight deck and in various corners of the Hermes' hangar facilities. Sandman saw an Arrow that was getting a new wing section to replace the one that had been shot to molten slag. Next to it, a Thunderbolt was propped upon a huge steel jack stand, waiting for a new landing gear strut. Techs poured over each of the fighters, doing everything they could to bring them back to operational status as quickly as possible. Sandman looked around to find his fighter.

"Sir, can I help you with something?"

Sandman turned around to see a tech. He was tall, lanky, and had flaming red hair. He seemed too young to David to be a tech, but then again, David probably seemed too young to be a combat veteran.

"I was looking for my fighter. I just transferred aboard ..." Sandman started.

"Ah, you must be Lieutenant Markham. I saw the info that you were going to be here shortly."

The tech held out a hand, and Sandman shook it, surprised by the firmness of the young-looking tech's grip.

"Mechanic's Mate Second Class Craig Rockhold, just call me Red. I guess I'm your crew chief. I'm glad you made it in one piece. I heard about Fort Jackson."

"Yeah, well let's just say my career so far has been far from boring,"

"That shuttle pilot did a fine job using our strike as cover to bring you in," the tech summed up the situation. "At the moment, I'd say we are currently in the eye of the storm. The local Confed garrison forces lost their last capship in the last attack, and Rear Admiral Callahan just died this morning from wounds he sustained two days ago."

Sandman cringed when he heard the news. Colonel Walker apparently had a gift for understatement. Sandman had a newfound appreciation for the shuttle pilot who had been willing to bring them in under these conditions. No wonder they called her Crazy Jane.

Red pointed down the flight deck. "Let's go to where the Blood Hound Squadron maintains their fighters."

He led Sandman about 100 feet down the flight deck to the ten Hellcats that comprised the 811th Squadron.

The crew chief pointed at one of the fighters, "Well sir, if you are asking about your bird, here it is. One state of the art F-86 Hellcat Five. It's the newest C variant, designation Hellcat 309. That is one high-tech, state-of-the-art thing of beauty, sir."

Red grinned contagiously as he approached the Hellcat, clearly proud of the warbird. Sandman's reciprocal grin faded from his face as they got closer and he could see the fighter more clearly.

"Yeah it's high tech and state of the art ... and shot to pieces!" Sandman exclaimed. There were horrible burns and scratch marks all around the fighter. From what Sandman could tell, it was a miracle it had survived its last engagement.

Red's enthusiasm didn't fade, in spite of Sandman's clear disapproval.

"You don't need to worry about it being an old rust bucket, sir. It's actually a pretty new fighter. It just came off the plant a few months ago. The worn down look is just battle damage. We'll have her good to go by the time you need to launch."

"Well, at least make an effort to make it look decent before I go up in it", Sandman remarked as he glanced at the name printed right below the canopy, it read "2nd Lt. Tiago 'Bulletproof' Garcia". Someone had scratched a big fat 'X' over the name to signify that the pilot was dead.

'Guess the Cats didn't get the memo, did they, pal?' Sandman thought. He reached for the ladder and began to pull himself up towards the cockpit. At the top, a wave of nausea poured over him as the stench from the cockpit hit him. There was an awful smell of copper, roasted blood, and charred human flesh.

Sandman dropped down from the ladder and gasped "What happened to this fighter, Red?"

"A few battles ago a missile went off a bit too close and the blast punctured some holes on the canopy glass. Decompressed the entire cockpit and punctured Bulletproof's helmet. The poor guy's head just exploded from the null pressure ..."

David felt his stomach rebelling against his best efforts to keep from vomiting. Gasping, he clutched his stomach and dropped to his knees, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply to try to fight down the nausea. The urge to throw up was so strong it brought tears to his eyes. He tried to focus on his breathing, and began to feel relieved when the nausea began to subside.

His relief was penetrated by a strident voice that boomed out "Well, shoot! You weren't even in the fight today and here you are crying about it? Jeez, man, it seems like the rookies these days are getting more and more emotionally fragile." Already feeling humiliated from his physical reaction and half-paranoid, Sandman looked in the direction of the voice to see a bunch of Hermes pilots standing staring at him. They had seen him gasping and gagging and had watched as the tears streamed from his eyes, and if their facial expressions were at all accurate, they considered the situation hilarious.

The man who was doing all the talking was a good six feet tall, largely framed and stocky, ruggedly handsome with his blond hair in a crew cut. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and an old fashioned leather jacket over his issued Confed blue uniform. The pilot bore the insignia of a First Lieutenant, accompanied by a trio of other pins. One insignia was a logo of the Hermes, and the other was a squadron logo: a vicious black canine with red eyes and blood drooling from its mouth. He noted the words 'Fighting 811th' right under the logo, and the bloody font 'Blood Hounds'.

The 811th was Sandman's new squadron, which made this blowhard Sandman's squad mate. The third insignia on the pilot's uniform was of a howling wolf. It corresponded to the callsign that the pilot had stitched on the right side of his jacket, "Greywolf." A callsign for a loose cannon if ever there was one, Sandman thought.

"Just remember, little girl, outside those atmosphere screens nothing falls to the floor. So if you go bawling like that in every fight, you are going to have little water droplets filling up your cockpit and blocking your view, making you just that much easier to kill. You ain't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Hey, I like that, it kind of suits our little cry-baby here, don't you think? Dorothy it is, then." More laughter.

"The name is Sandman ... sir", Sandman replied, forcing himself to stand upright, although his stomach still felt unsettled. David had a tendency to operate on instinct, and instinct told him that his new tour wasn't off to a good start. He bit his tongue to keep himself from saying the thoughts coming to his mind, feeling certain it would only fuel Greywolf's fire.

Greywolf's eyes shifted to the battered Hellcat. "Is this mean killing machine safe to fly?" he asked in mock concern. "This might be an embarrassing question to ask, no offence, but I'm growing attached to my ass and don't want to part with it." More laughter. "What I'm getting at, Dorothy, is I wonder if you're man enough to handle the program."

Sandman was straining to keep his anger in check, "I told you, sir, it's not Dorothy. It's Sandman." Greywolf coughed up his throat in response and spat a liberal amount of phlegm on the ground right beneath Sandman.

"Do you know why no one remembers your callsign, Dorothy? Because no one wants to remember your name. You are totally and utterly forgettable. There is nothing about you worth remembering. There are too many of you newbies out here, replacing combat veterans that more than likely you puking newbies got killed in the first place. All of you fresh little schoolboys, wearing your new freshly churned butter bars and flight wings, all smiling and dreaming of saving the Confederation!"

Greywolf then started making mocking poses lampooning a normal newbie's requests, "Where are those Cats? Let me at 'em! When do we go to Kilrah? I need to go pee pee, can someone tell me where the potty is? Do you really think that is what Confed needs more of right now? There are too many wannabe pilots named Hotshot, Phoenix, Die Hard, and Sandman. Oh, yeah, there are way too many Sandmans; I think you are the tenth one I've encountered since I got my wings. The Cats have nine lives. Do Sandmen have ten?" Greywolf made a face as he scowled up at Sandman's position. "Don't fool yourself, kid, you've only got one, and it's going to be very, very short, I have no doubt. You're nothing but a replacement, and the only thing replacements are good for is making room for more replacements."

Sandman felt it was time to go before he did something he would regret.

"Excuse me sir, but I have to get going and get assigned to a new room. I'll just follow the yellow brick road." Sandman walked over to his bag and started talking to it as he picked it up, "Come on Toto, we need to get going."

Markham did an about face and left. The snickers of the other pilots echoed in his ears long after he was out of earshot. If I am Dorothy, maybe a tornado will drop a house on Greywolf. Wouldn't that be nice?