The Tzelans - Chapter 2

Captain Simm, Caucus Navy, gazed in a contemplative manner through his cabin’s view port at the stars beyond. For the past two months, after the Allies had recovered Hamthen from the Axis, Simm’s Task Element 114.1 was stationed in the Harvest Slope system. Originally slated to join Task Force 11 in Pileus via a circuitous route TE 114.1 was sent to assist Task Force 22 in the Virga offensive. In any event the task element wasn’t needed and had spent the intervening time patrolling Harvest Slope. Allied HQ had decided to let Axis forces between Hamthen, Virga and Roll Cloud to run out of supplies and wither on the vine. TF 11 was still in Virga just in case Axis forces decided to conduct a suicide attack.
     Simm was perfectly content with the current situation. It made sense to starve and weaken whatever Axis forces were still in Hamthen space, minimizing Allied casualties when the time came to finish them off. The past two months, not to mention the transit from Tzel to Harvest Slope, have been well spent in drills and mock attacks. With the demonstrated size of Axis fleets it was plain to see the war was going to last for years. It was inevitable in Simm’s mind that his ships would see action. In fact he knew action was certain to happen in the next few months.
     Reversing its previous decision Allied HQ decided to eliminate the Axis survey squadrons in Terrace and Canal, systems linked to Harvest Slope. While these squadrons had no hope of leaving due to the minefields guarding the far side of their respective systems’ warp points they had enough supplies to last for a year. However, these squadrons were only as fast as their supply ships, and task elements such as 114.1 would have a slight speed advantage. It was decided to give Simm’s and well as three other elements some combat experience.
     Vanquishing enemy survey ships wouldn’t be the only experience for Simm and his command, the escort carrier Autumn Wind. Several years earlier, through the good offices of the Terpla’ns, the Caucus and the Royal Nation of Valhalla established formal relations. The first officer exchange between the respective navies had only now occurred, and the honor fell on Autumn Wind. Waiting outside of Simm’s cabin was one Lt. (sg) Geron Helmstrong of the RVSN. The young Valhallan had only just arrived, and in accordance to Caucus naval regulations he was to report to the commanding officer directly instead of the ship’s executive officer. It only then occurred to Simm that Helmstrong had been waiting for ten minutes.
     Being a small ship there was no day cabin for Simm, his quarters doubling as his office. Closing the view port Simm then sat down and pressed a recessed button on his desk. A red light blinked on the bulkhead of the corridor outside, telling Helmstrong to enter. He did, with service hat under his arm and saluting like a cadet in the academy. Like all Valhallan males Helmstrong had a prominent chin. Simm noted that the Lt had shaved his beard, mindful of Tzelan naval regulations. Beards were considered part of the uniform for a Valhallan officer, so it was likely the Lt removed his while on the shuttle flight to the carrier.
     Looking at Helmstrong’s uniform would make one wonder if they’ll become blind to the color red. Even in the subdued lighting of the cabin Simm felt the urge to squint. The gold trim and pilot wings only served to highlight the assault to the eyes known as ‘Royal Red’. Simm returned the officer’s salute. “You may be seated,” he said like a proctor of a test.
     Helmstrong took his seat and placed his hat on his lap. He regarded the Tzelan captain with careful eyes. Having done his research the Lt knew he would be serving one of the most senior captains of the Caucus Navy. Simm had spent his entire adult life in naval service and had commanded five ships previous to Autumn Wind along with planet-side assignments. If the scuttlebutt about hunting down Axis survey groups was true then a successful outcome would help Simm’s promotion prospects greatly.
     Like all young officers looking to get the required punches on their career tickets, Helmstrong actually wanted a posting at the bleeding edge of the war. Before his unexpected transfer the Lt was looking forward to being the tactical officer of the BC Siren Bird. While it was an honor to be the first one in the exchange program there was no doubt that his work would be closely scrutinized. If a battle provided the nudge Simm needed to become an admiral then it went double for Helmstrong, for a success would open up postings that would otherwise be denied.
     Simm twitched his ears, a sign that he was about to speak. “I’ll leave the pleasantries for the evening mess. So instead of telling your life story to each officer individually you can do it in one go,” he grinned. “It has been left to my discretion as to which posting you’ll have on my ship, Lieutenant. Having reviewed your record I’ve decided to give you a task that will utilize the skills you’ve learned so far. You, Helmstrong, will be Autumn Wind’s strikewing operations officer. Since this is the command ship of the task element that’ll make you in charge of planning sorties of the combined strikewings.”
     Having expected some sort of staff work the Lt kept the surprise off his face. While he did earn his pilot wings Helmstrong only served in a squadron for four months, and that was before the war. Strikewing operations officers, in accordance to Terpla’n standards, had to have been in command of a fighter squadron for a year to qualify for the post. A considerable amount of responsibility had been assigned to him, and the visibility of his posting would magnify any slipup or error. “Sir, I’m honored by your selection. I hope you’ve taken my relative lack of flight time into account.”
     Simm flicked his left ear, indicating that he was amused. The Lt’s accented Tzelan made Simm recall a fisherman he knew back in his youth. “I have, Helmstrong. In the fleet problems you participated in while on the Royal Valhallan Home Fleet staff your solutions were effective and concise. I would’ve assigned you as my operations officer of the task element except for a mitigating factor. Two months before leaving Tzel the carriers of this task element had their flight groups embarked on the new Ateva class carriers. In turn we got freshly trained pilots and fighters so new that we’re still removing the odd piece of packing material during maintenance cycles. The Atevas also got our original hanger personnel and the strikewing operations officers. As none of our new pilots have the required background or training, you’re the only practical choice.”
     “I’ll endeavor to do my best, Captain,” Helmstrong said automatically, like a cadet responding to an instructor.
     “No doubt you will, Lieutenant.” Simm pressed a button on his desk. “My XO, Mr. Kapp, will be here shortly and will show you to your cabin, followed by a tour of the ship. The pilots are looking forward to meeting you, so be sure to see them. Kapp will also give you your schedule for this week as well as oversee your orientation.”
     A few minutes later, after Helmstrong left with Kapp, Simm opened the top drawer of his desk and retrieved a short metal tube. Inside was something that the Valhallans called a cigar, used in an activity called smoking. He found it amusing that a race as intelligent and sophisticated as the Valhallans would deliberately inhale the smoke from a burning plant product into their lungs. Medical science had mostly countered the negative effects of smoking, but such costs wouldn’t be incurred if smoking wasn’t done in the first place.
     Simm opened the tube and gave the contents a quick sniff. He found the odor to be pungent and repelling, quickly sealing the tube back up. The captain of the Valhallan carrier Bayside had presented a whole box to Simm when he visited the ship two months ago. Having no real need for the cigars, Simm saved one and gave the rest to his pilots. For all Simm knew they would treat the cigars as souvenirs, or perhaps try to smoke or eat them on a dare. Given the shenanigans Autumn Wind’s pilots have engaged in Simm wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve treated the cigars as snack food. Such is the foolery of youth.

The pilot quarters were located above the hanger deck, in-between ship stores and repair bays. Only the squadron insignia on the hatch distinguished it from all the other compartments on the deck. Leading the way, Mr. Kapp entered the quarters unannounced. Helmstrong followed, and immediately his nose was tickled by the familiar smell of cigars. Upon first looks there was just one pilot evident, sitting in a chair by a hatch across the room. He wore a sleeveless vest, and it was clear to see that his arms were denuded of wool, revealing intricate tattoos. Kapp raised a forestalling hand, keeping the pilot seated. “Hello, XO,” said the pilot as the two officers approached. “Is this our new ops officer?”
      “He is, Jadd,” Kapp confirmed. “Lt. Garon Helmstrong, this is Ensign Fays Jadd, call sign Tattoo. He’s the second in command of 32nd Squadron.”
     “A pleasure to meet you, Tattoo.” Garon extended his hand, mindful of his considerable grip.
     “Great beneficence,” Tattoo replied, finding Garon’s grip to be like a vise covered in a mitten.
     “Where are the rest of the 32nd and the 31st?” Kapp inquired.
     Tattoo flicked his ears backwards. “They’re waiting in the activity room, Mr. Kapp.” Still sitting, the pilot raised his hand and pressed a switch that was above his head on the bulkhead. The hatch opened, and smell of cigar increased strongly. Following Kapp, Garon noticed that there was a noticeable haze in the air. The source was a bowl at the center of the room. Lining the bowl were lit cigars, about half a dozen as far as he could determine. With the source of the haze determined Garon looked up again. He almost took a step back when he saw something else in the air.
     Twenty-four pilots were in the activity room, clad in hooded robes and dark sunglasses, all of them sitting in the lotus position. Rather make that twenty sitting and four levitating two meters above the floor. Garon looked to Tattoo for an answer.
     “They’re communing with the Universal Soul, Lieutenant,” said the pilot in a matter-of-fact tone. “Some become so enraptured by the experience that they temporarily manifest paranormal powers.”
     “I see,” Garon said in a polite by skeptical tone, his accent enforcing the latter.
     “Don’t be so dismissive, Mr. Helmstrong,” said one of the levitating pilots. Even with sunglasses covering his eyes it was clear that the pilot was ‘in the zone’ of his mediation. “Our race has achieved an enlightenment that evolved after millennium of conflict. What you’re seeing is merely a trivial manifestation of that enlightenment. Knowing and comprehending one’s soul is the highest endeavor one can engage in.”
     Out of curiosity Garon waved an arm under one of the floating pilots. There was no sign of an anti-grav field, and as for wires he didn’t see any suspending the mediating stick jockeys. As a Valhallan, raised in a culture that regarded the paranormal as a domain belonging to the gods (mischievous and malicious alike), Garon was finding the scene uncomfortable. Old stories and legends from his childhood, ones that generated nightmares, were pressing into the realm of conscious thought.
     The pilot spoke again, his voice reserved. “We had expected you a little later, Mr. Helmstrong. We can talk afterwards, for right now this interruption is harshing our tranquility.”
     “Meditation is one our most revered rights,” Kapp said to a disappointed but subconsciously relieved Garon. “We came during their off-duty period, the only time on-ship that they’re allowed to meditate. We can save the introductions for your first strikewing briefing later this week.”
     “Perfectly fine, Mr. Kapp. I have no wish to disrupt their privacy.” Without prompting Garon left the room, with Kapp giving a rueful look at one pilot in particular before following. When the hatch closed the mood in the room changed immediately. Several pilots coughed in a fit, reaching for water bottles and downing the contents to treat their irritated throats. One activated the ventilation controls while another put out the cigars. Garon’s leaving couldn’t have been time better as one levitating pilot unceremoniously fell to the floor, the near-invisible strings the held him up had finally broken.
     The pilot, callsign Jelly, got up and massaged his offended bottom. “For something that was improvised at the last moment I must say that harness did the trick. We could’ve used something better than dental floss for the string, though.”
     “You owe me for that floss, Jelly,” said another suspended pilot known as Beans. Two of his confederates fetched chairs and helped him down. “That’s medicinal floss, the kind that won’t irritate my gums. Speaking of gums, we had more material to use on Helmstrong. I didn’t even get to try out my mind reading trick.”
     Jelly took off his sunglasses, revealing his purple eyes as they blinked in response to the new lighting. “I had to cut it short. I felt the floss starting to give out.” He turned to the pilot that got Kapp’s measured look. “Flash, good call about the sunglasses. Seeing something as red as that uniform without protection would’ve burned out our retinas.”
     Lt (2nd grade) Foss Hevv, commander of the 31st squadron and called Flash for his penchant of flashing his smile at desirable females, removed his sunglasses as well. “I’ve figured the glasses would enhance the ‘mystic warrior monk’ look as well as spare our eyes. I wonder how long before Helmstrong figures out that he was tricked.”
     “If he did his homework and went beyond the official, and dry, briefing on our culture then it won’t take long,” said Beans as he lowered his hood. “With him being a pilot, and from what we saw of Valhallan pilots on the Bayside, he probable expected this and played along.”
      Jelly shook his head. “I don’t know, Flash. The look Kapp gave you means that he’ll talk with you after the tour.”
     “Can’t be what we did here, Jelly. I told him beforehand, unless he found about the still.”
    “We can always claim it was a give from the Bayside pilots,” Beans offered.
     “That we can, Beans,” Flash said, giving his trademark smile. “We received it in the spirit of cross-cultural understanding, and we’re sticking to that story.”

Chapter 2.25
Like all small warships in the Caucus Navy only the captain and the executive officer had their own private quarters. Senior officers below them were posted in pairs. Garon was assigned to share a cabin with Lt (1st grade) Wayan Batt, Autumn Wind’s communication officer. Upon completion of the ship tour Garon went to his cabin to unpack and to prepare for the evening mess. Upon entry he found Batt working on a terminal at a desk. The Tzelan stood up and offered his hand. Like before Garon’s grip was like a barely-cushioned vise.
      “Great beneficence, Mr. Helmstrong,” said Batt. “I must say the reputation of a Valhallan handshake is well-earned.”
      “Sorry,” said Garon. “It’s hard to overcome something that’s second nature.”
      “Perfectly all right,” Batt offered even as he flexed his hand to regain a sense of feeling. “I have read Valhallan cultural texts and thought I was prepared for ‘the grip.’ I take it that you haven’t shook hands with the Captain?”
      “No. The protocol in that instance is for the senior to offer his hand first.”
      Batt hummed. “That will give you the opportunity to lighten your grip. A strong handshake is seen by Tzelans as a petty way to express dominance and authority.”
      “I’ll keep that in mind.” Finding his travel case and garment bag on his bunk Garon proceeded to put his personal effects away. “Batt, do you know much about the pilots assigned to this ship?”
      “A fair deal, Mr. Helmstrong. They’re a fairly breezy group when it comes to wordage.” A new thought then occurred to Batt. “Oh, and they like to goof off with inane practical jokes. Did you by chance meet them formal or informally?”
      Garon’s brow wrinkled. “Practical, indeed. They’ve played on their public image as portrayed in the Valhallan popular press and incorporated some things they learned about my civilization. They were playing meditating monks that levitate and spout banal wisdom.”
      “Oh, how silly. You should have stopped here first,” Batt said. “I could’ve told you what was going to happen. I’m amazed that Mr. Kapp didn’t know; had he did, then he would’ve nipped it in the bud. Those pilots are chatterboxes. Were you disturbed?”
      “A bit, Mr. Batt. Pretending to levitate is in bad taste for my people.”
      “I must admit my ignorance, Mr. Helmstrong. My background research in Valhallan culture apparently wasn’t deep enough. Could you elaborate?”
      After hanging up a work uniform in the narrow closet Garon stopped his unpacking for a moment. “It comes from the mythical origins of the Valhallan race. In an epic battle between good and evil gods the people were caught in the middle. Such energies were in play that many were lifted off the ground and suspended in mid-air, only to be killed by flying debris or impaled on tree limbs. To save those that could be saved the Mountain Goddess, Jal, blessed the people with her blood and gave them a grip worthy of the gods themselves. Thereafter the people made sure that they were near a place that they could grip the rock of the land or a mountain whenever the wind blows strong. Tricksters and demons liked to tease or torment their victims by catching them unawares and levitating them, then dashing them onto the ground.”
      Batt stroked his jaw with his thumb and forefinger, a Tzelan sign of comprehension. “I see how such a belief can be an outgrowth from a natural fear of falling. A race of accomplished climbers would have to overcome that fear every time a mountain is conquered. As for my race, it is true that we talk and debate on any subject. Though I must say that the observance of meditation is played a bit too much in the foreign press. We don’t consult the Universal Soul at the drop of a hat when asked for an opinion.”
      “I’ll have to agree with you, Mr. Batt,” Garon admitted. “The Valhallan press seems to find Tzelans as pleasant, peaceful, quaint, but a bit too eager. They’ve noted, for a nation of your resources, that the Caucus Navy has pledge practically all of its forces to the CSF for the duration. Not to be dismissive, but the CN has nothing larger that the small carriers it recently introduced. They’ll best serve in the support role, for in direct combat they’ll sustain heavy casualties.”
      “In view of what’s already transpired in this war, Mr. Helmstrong, casualties for the Navy are insignificant when weighed against Hamthen losses,” Batt said. “While my race is known for practicing peace like it was an innate skill one should not confuse it with passivity. When confronted with implacable evil as embodied by the Asteroid Axis one cannot ignore it or seek compromise. It must be destroyed to its core. When word came about the destruction of Dotz III there was hardly any debate in the government and the general public. We knew what had to be done.”
      Garon, having finished his unpacking, placed the travel case in his tall locker. “I wish my government had been quicker in honoring its commitments. Next to the Tuphon, we’ve enjoyed the longest treaty relationship with the Terpla’ns. There’s still some lingering resentment from the other allies on the delay of our initial squadron deployments.”
     “With the admirable performance of RVSN ships in the reclamation of Hamthen I’m sure such recriminations are over,” offered Batt. “The other officers at the dinner tonight will take that into account in their discussions with you. We will strive to make this a pleasant, productive experience for all.”

The officer’s mess was considered spacious as far as compartments were concerned on the Autumn Wind. With all the senior officers and department heads in attendance, however, the atmosphere induced feelings of claustrophobia. At the head of the polished hardwood table sat Simm, flanked by Kapp, the XO, and Epps the chief engineer. On the far end was medical officer Yates, Garon, and Batt. In-between were the rest, including Hevv (aka Flash) commander of the 31st fighter squadron, and Pott (Pickles), commander of the 32nd fighter squadron. Tattoo and Jelly, second-in-command of their respective squadrons, were there as well.
      While omnivores, the Tzelan diet was three-fourths meat. This suited Garon for Valhallans had a similar diet. Expecting some sort of formality to start dining Garon saw that as soon as an officer was seated he was immediately served by a kitchen steward and began eating. Once all the officers were present Simm introduced Garon and went back to this meal. As it was declared an informal dinner there was no ceremony to stand upon, totally unlike the RVSN where every officer’s mess was treated as if the King was present. The first one to speak was Yates, but only after downing a particularly succulent strip of meat chased by sip of dandelion wine. “Mr. Helmstrong, though I’m versed on the background of Valhallan physiology, perhaps you shed some cultural insight on the prominent chins of Valhallan males.”
      A good enough of an icebreaker as any, thought Garon. “Certainly, Doctor. Valhallan mothers, whether to lead a boy or to get his attention, would gab his chin and tug on it. So, over time, this action is credited for the prominent chins. Wives make use of the chins as convenient leases with which to lead their husbands around. ”
      “Ah, something similar to Tzelan beards,” Yates added. “Luckily for us, regulations require a shaved jaw so it won’t hinder the seal of a vac suit helmet.”
      “What do you think of the ship, Lt?” asked Epps. The green-eyed engineer then took a forkful of salad to go after the gravy-covered meat slab he just consumed.
      Garon looked at Epps, knowing for all intent and purpose he was actually answering Simm’s question. “For being built around its hanger bays the Autumn Wind feels spacious. The crew worked as if they weren’t in a sardine can.”
      “You can thank the Terpla’ns for the sardine aspect,” Epps said after taking a sip of wine. “Autumn Wind and her sisters are copies of the Cout class. Only those changes required for Tzelan physiology were made to the interior layout. Most notably the heads, for one example. I don’t care if I have to wait in line as long as I’m able to take a load off my feet.”
      “Then there’s the location of this mess,” said Pickles. “As you may have noticed, it’s right next to the sick bay. Convenient when the wine disagrees with the food.”
      “That’s just a fringe benefit,” declared Jelly. “Being located next to sick bay, the officer’s mess can be used for overflow capacity. The hardwood repels blood like water, making post-op cleaning a snap.”
     “Leave it to Jelly to make macabre observations,” said Kapp in a tone that expected such words from the pilot. He then addressed Garon. “Lieutenant, am I correct to know that senior RVSN officers are required to carry hand axes while on active wartime deployment?”
      “That is correct, Sir,” Garon said with measured pride. “It was a custom in pre-space Valhallan society that any senior officer, starting from commander or major on up, could be called upon by the King to serve in his campaign council. They had to be armed so that they could defend the King on the battlefield should the need arise.”
      “Speaking of customs,” said Jelly, fresh from cutting his portion into smaller sections, “I have a question on the structure of the Valhallan government. I wonder why your monarch, King Russen Ironsmith, has the powers normally reserved for an elected official.”
      “It was a compromise,” Garon said as if it was common knowledge. “After the War of the Court the various regional governments were merged to form a system-wide representative polity. As there was still mistrust on the reliability of the various senior military officers from the former governments it was agreed that Russen be made commander-in-chief of the national armed forces. He was going to have the power of the Treasury, but after protracted talks he was made minister of foreign affairs. Of course, at that time, the Valhallan had no knowledge of warp points, so the position was mostly window dressing.”
      “But that changed when the Terpla’ns arrived,” Kapp observed. “King Russen took the initiative and made contact, as it was within in his ministerial power.”
      Just about to eat a portion of meat Jelly put his fork back down on the plate. “As a student of the political sciences I believe King Russen had overstepped his bounds. Even though his foreign affair powers were invested in his position as king he was still answerable to the government. He should have consulted the prime minister instead of acting on his own.”
      “He acted on the best interest of the people, a higher priority than the government,” Garon replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “King Russen was fulfilling his monarchal responsibilities, and if anything went wrong he would take the blame. Otherwise the government would’ve been paralyzed by indecision and doubt in a most important point of history.”
      Jelly shook his head. “In that instance everything worked out. However, given what happened two years ago just confirms my belief that monarchs in the modern age should just confer honorary titles and knight people instead of being an active part of government.”
      “Oh? Why is that, Jelly?” asked Batt. He had noticed that Jelly, a noted chow hound, had been among the first to arrive at the mess and had in fact started on his third cup of dandelion wine.
      Jelly gestured his hand as if an invisible fly was tormenting his plate, a sign of encroaching inebriation. “When the Terpla’ns called upon their allies to fulfill their military assistance treaties two years ago the Valhallan parliament was sent into violent debate about Russen’s role as commander-in-chief. Again, traditionally, in democratic governments that role was assumed by the chief executive, an elected official,” he stressed deliberately. “Had he given a care to what his action of intransigence was doing he would’ve renounced his claim on that title and allowed the senior admiral to take direct command of the RVSN.”
      “Have you a conclusion to your statement, Jelly?” Garon asked innocently, but Batt noted an undercurrent of challenge in the tone.
      “I’m stating that had the Valhallan War of the Court resulted in a monarchy with no actual power in the day-to-day affairs of government,” Jelly said with wine-laced breath, “then there wouldn’t have been any delay in the deployment of the RVSN. Indeed, had the squadrons that were stationed in Everglade been released early then it could’ve been likely the Axis would’ve failed in the Hamthen assault.”
      “It was the politicians that held up the fleet,” Epps said sternly. “I’ve read the same articles as you did, and the King was within his rights to insist on fulfilling his constitutionally-appointed role.”
      “Then it’s a good thing he’s coming to the front to lead his fleet personally,” Jelly said back in a pointed voice. “After offering his condolences to President Skuu the King can then go out and die on the battlefield to atone for his deadly stubbornness.”
       Garon fixed a basilisk gaze at the pilot. At that moment it felt as if the air in the mess was frozen solid. Regardless of the effects of the wine Jelly had offended the sensibilities of an ally. Like any XO worth their salt Kapp spared his captain and his reputation from publicly dressing down a junior officer. Standing up with cup in hand Kapp made a toast. “God save the King,” he said from the depth of his chest, trusting out the cup so that some of its contents lapped over the rim.
      Pickles grasped Jelly by the elbow to ensure he stood up and toasted with the rest of the mess. Along with Flash and Tattoo he noticed the look Garon was giving them. He got the distinct impression that he wouldn’t tolerate any good-natured practical jokes for the remainder of his stay.

Chapter 2.50
Word spread faster than tachyons on what happened the previous evening in the officer’s mess. Sitting in the pilots briefing room were 30 anxious souls. They hastily went back to their texts on Valhallan history and found it was unwise to insult one’s king. Visions of an axe-wielding warrior bent on bloody reprisal filled their minds. Flash and Pickles told their charges to forget about the pranks they planned to pull for the rest of Garon’s stay. Just as the Valhallan entered the two officers remembered that they had painted the room red a few days earlier in anticipation of Garon’s arrival. It was to be a not-so-subtle sight gag in that Garon’s skin and uniform would’ve blended in, giving the impression of a disembodied voice addressing the pilots. However Garon wasn’t in his characteristic red uniform but in an ecru-colored suit. It was also just then that both squadron commanders remembered that they had their pilots wear sunglasses, again making light of Garon’s original bright red uniform.
      “Is it the lights or do all Tzelan pilots have sensitive eyes?” Garon said disarmingly.
      “We’re preparing for the simulators, Lieutenant,” Flash said with aplomb. “This way our eyes will readily adjust to the lighting levels.”
      “Good thinking, Flash. In fact, let’s make that standard procedure for these simulator exercises.” After that, and with the introductions complete, the Valhallan officer went on to explain an exercise to be conducted in simulators with the other squadrons in the task element, linked together in a computer network. It was simple plan with the eight squadrons attacking with full loads of antimatter close attack missiles. Against the certified composition of the Axis survey squadron the whole affair would be done in one sortie.
      The simulators, located next to the hanger bays, replicated the cockpits of Tzelan fighters in every way. Rapid changes in gravity settings helped to mimic the strain of the fighters’ life support systems in combat. Complete with flight gear, the pilots were hooked into their seats like components of a circuit board. All procedures were followed, including handing over sunglasses to deck personnel and signing the preflight checklist. The kick of a magpult launch was simulated; feeling like a punch to the stomach as far as Flash was concerned.
      With all participating virtual squadrons formed up the strike closed in on the target of the exercise. Having been under surveillance for months the Axis ships types were known. On his command plot in the simulator’s backseat Flash made his targeting priorities. Autumn Wind’s squadrons would take on two of the BC-sized survey ships with four other squadrons taking the third and the three CA supply ships. As for the three DD survey ships they would be dispatched by the last two squadrons, firing partially volleys since full loads would be overkill.
      At the simulated range of one light-second three fighters were ‘killed’ by the BCs’ capital point defense. Then the plot became crowded as the DDs inexplicably revealed themselves to be escort carriers. Six hostile squadrons tore into the oncoming Tzelan strike. Between the gun packs and point defense only eight fighters made it to point-blank range. Just one CA freighter was destroyed and only two fighters pulled away, unburdened by external ordnance.
      Flash’s fighter was one of those knocked out, the cockpit going totally dark. At two minutes the wait for the simulator to open felt like an eternity. With a tech assisting Flash removed his helmet, only then seeing Garon standing behind the master control console. The sanctimonious look on the red-colored officer told Flash that a score had been settled. Having the exercise ending with the near-total extermination of the strike was a sure way to be remembered in the squadron histories. He then wondered if Garon was one of those that carried a grudge until it died of old age, only to have it stuffed and mounted. Pickles, next to emerge from his simulator, also came to the same conclusion Flash arrived at just then.
      “Commendable that the attack was carried through,” Garon said over the intercom system for all to hear. “Destroying the support ship significantly reduced the amount of time the remaining ships could stay on station. The loss of the strikeforce, however, was unacceptable. If each fighter had used one of their short attack missiles in proximity mode then losses wouldn’t have been as great. Crippling the ships and losing half the fighters is far better than definitely killing one and having two write 92 letters for the folks at home.” Garon glanced at his watch. “The next exercise will be held tomorrow at 0900. I’ll be in conference with the strikewing operations officers on the other carriers. I advise the squadron commanders to review the performance of their respective pilots to identify areas for improvement. That is all.”
      Flash couldn’t help but notice the harsh glint in Garon’s eyes as he looked at him and Pickles. That could only mean the exercises were going to be harsh and uncompromising for the foreseeable future.

A month had passed. Task Element 114.1 had moved into the Terrace system in the interim. The primary was a white sun with eight planets in attendance. The first three had runaway greenhouse atmospheres with surface temperatures at or above the melting point of lead, and the fourth was charitably given the title of planet instead of captured moon. Three gas giants, followed by a methane and ammonia ball with an icy surface, and three warp points completed the setting.
      Keeping watch over the Axis survey force in Terrace were four Sloop scouts, three Rundenro frigates, three Spice Clipper supply ships, one Eyut minelayer and one Jonal automated weapons control ship. A comprehensive surveillance network of scanner buoys had been meticulously built over the months and kept in repair. The Axis had three small fleet scouts in their force, using them to take out buoys as they happen upon them. In response the Eyut and Jonal were brought in, placing 30-pattern minefields at a range of 1.25 LS around buoys that lead to the warp point for Harvest Slope. One scout stumbled onto such an arrangement and was badly damaged, but not before sending a warning back to the survey force. That ship was chased down and destroyed by a Rundenro. This discouraged the Axis from attempting to destroy buoys so as to create holes in the surveillance net. Not that it would’ve mattered since a pair of Sloops kept pace with them all the time, and had they tried their hand in minesweeping they ran the risk of incurring permanent armor damage for there was no repair ship in the force.
      Captain Simm and Commander Kapp were observing Autumn Wind’s hanger deck from the flight operations station. The pilots were cleaning and polishing their fighters, designated Fireflies in Tzelan nomenclature. Unlike the practice in other Allied navies, the Tzelans utilized the back seat of all their fighters instead of just two per squadron. It lessened the workload for the primary pilot, allowing him to focus on his main task – engaging enemy ships and fighters.
     “Kapp, given the distance,” Simm said after a few minutes, “how long can we maintain full tactical speed until our fighters could engage the Axis ships and return with sufficient life support?”
      “It all depends on their willingness to stay at cruising speed and how far they want to move from the Harvest Slope warp point,” Kapp stated. “For every day they move at maximum speed means two days at cruising speed. They also want to keep close so that they can detect friendly drive field emissions. With that said it will take two days at maximum speed to reach effective strikefighter range.”
      Simm nodded and grunted. “No doubt Mr. Epps is happy that we won’t be abusing his engines for a whole week. While on the subject of abuse, what have our pilots been saying?”
      Kapp looked out of the station’s windows at the pilots below. The jovial manner they went about in their cleaning duties covered an inner resentment. “They feel that enough is enough,” he stated formally. “Of the eleven simulation exercises and four live training problems they’ve been ‘killed’ seven times or sustained very heavy casualties. Those seven were ones planned by Mr. Helmstrong. As for the rest, they were planned and conducted by the strikewing operations officers of the other carriers. Based on reports of actual small-scale combats in Hamthen space, those exercises had much higher survival rates.”
      “There is no real way one can prepare for the unknown,” Simm commented, his arms folded. “Helmstrong is a firm believer of rapid battlefield adaptation. True, the simulated casualties were excessive, but given the circumstances our pilots gave good account of themselves.”
      “Getting singled out in each of those seven exercises, to be eliminated first, doesn’t give much of an opportunity for one to give a good account,” Kapp said in a pointed rejoinder. “Especially when the odds are so one-sided, like when the Axis ships were pure point-defense platforms or fighter carriers. The composition of the survey force has been known for months. Two scouts confirmed that by moving within maximum capital force beam range and had their armor destroyed. Helmstrong should be conducting exercises with that information in mind, using variations of fighter loadouts, instead of patting himself on the back for devising yet another way to wipe out the strikegroup by proxy.”
      Simm flicked his ears. Kapp had been thinking what he’d been thinking; all what was needed was for the words to be spoken. “You feel strong in your opinion, and you have brought up some legitimate points. He has been acting overly formal and distant with the pilots, not to mention the junior officers. Perhaps he needs to light up.” After a moment of pondering an answer appeared. “Kapp, have Mr. Batt talk with Helmstrong. Tell him to encourage our guest of being less of a stone wall. He may find his stay more pleasant if he does.”
      “Aye, Captain.”

Off-duty, Garon was jogging in the main corridors of the Autumn Wind. The shorts and t-shirt he wore were of Royal Naval Academy vintage, every bit bright red and gold as his uniform. He ran alone, despite the fact that several other officers jogged at the same time he did, but started on the opposite side of the ship. That changed when Batt jogged right next to him. Unlike Garon’s attire, Batt wore an ensemble that was tattered and faded from years of constant use.
      “Aside from the weekly kickball game in the shuttlebay,” Batt said without preamble, his voice matching the tempo of his stride, “jogging is the only physical activity that confers a sense of motion.”
      Garon made a sideways glance. “I would rather be climbing and repelling, but there’s no practical way that could be done on this ship.”
      “Well, there is something to be said about climbing the walls. The pilots feel that they’ve become proficient at it,” Batt said in a laid-back manner.
      Garon ducked to avoid hitting his head on a bulkhead partition. “They’ll have their chance to vent energy in two days time, taking out those Axis ships.”
      Batt turned his head slightly. “It shouldn’t have to come down to engaging in combat to vent energy, Garon. Tell me, what do Valhallan pilots engage in while passing time between missions and during deployments?”
      “Play games, exercises, watch videos.” Garon said it so automatically that it hardly sound convincing.
      “Ah, perhaps you’re too modest to mention that other activity those pilots engage in. I’ve accompanied the Captain when he paid a visit to the Bayside. For as accomplished pilots go it’s hard to ignore the stories they tell once their senior officers are out of earshot.”
      Garon lifted his brow in puzzlement. “What may that be?”
      Batt made a good imitation of a Valhallan chuckle, sounding like gravel in a tumbler. “The ancient adage of sailors having lovers in every port goes double for pilots of the RVSN. They’re self-described sex maniacs, telling stories and keeping score like they were fighter kills.”
      Garon would’ve flushed had he not been jogging. “I have to accept the integrity that is a Tzelan and take your word for it. Is there a point you’re trying to tell me?”
      “There is.” Batt ducked in unison with Garon to avoid another partition. “Those of my people that become members of the military are, by definition, the most aggressive and bold. You’ve read the records and know that all of our pilots, save Flash and Pickles, had joined the Caucus Navy just days after news was received of the destruction of the frigate squadron in the Evershem system. They wanted to get into the fight as soon as possible.”
      “Such initiative is commendable,” Garon said honestly.
      “Tempered and purposeful aggression is still aggression. Having been a pilot yourself, Garon, then you understand that an outlet is needed to release pent-up energy. Otherwise it’ll build up and turn into bile.” After completing a corridor curve Batt continued. “The Bayside pilots had their sexual appetites and the stick jockeys of the Autumn Wind have their practical jokes. Flash, Pickles and the rest do their jokes not such much as to relieve tension but also to conquer their fear.”
      Garon sounded downright skeptical, even as he dodged another partition. “Fear? What do inane jokes have anything to do about conquering fear?”
      “A whole lot, Garon,” Batt said, using the Valhallan’s personal name for emphasis. “These are young men and women on their first deployment, and are as far away from home as one could get. Scarcely having finished flight training they were assigned to equally new ships and sent forward under the assumption they would be seeing combat upon arrival. The standard routine, even meditation, could only do so much for their sense of well being.” Avoiding a partition, Batt thought for a moment. “Above all else, they wanted to have memories that would counterbalance the potential loss of squadron mates. They want to be able to say their friends were part of joke played on the commissary officer or how they managed to slip dishwashing liquid into the officer’s showerheads. In that way something positive can be said of them instead of how they were extinguished by a nuclear fireball.”
      Garon managed a dour look even while jogging. “Here I was, being the typical Valhallan officer with his stiff chin and no sense of frivolity. I thought those exercises would toughen them up. Instead, I’ve become a source of dread and resentment.”
      “Well, you do have two days to come up with something that’ll prove you’re looking after their best interests,” suggested Batt. “There are other ways to get the job done without having to go in pell-mell.”
      “As you said, I have two days,” Garon replied. “Perhaps some of that old-fashion Tzelan meditation you taught me will help in reaching a new stratagem.”

Chapter 2.75
The Battle of Terrace was about to commence. Simm’s Task Element 114.1, composed of four Cout CVEs, two Provem DDEs, and three Okado DDs (all Terpla’n designs built and crewed by the CN) was accompanied by the three Rundenro FGs stationed in Terrace. A Spice Clipper supply ship followed, carrying enough materials and munitions to keep the force operating for three months.
      As for Task Element 114.2, a Bulan formation that accompanied 114.1 into Terrace, it was following as best it could. The two CVLs couldn’t match the speed of the Tzel ships, and having only six squadrons of prototype fighters instead of first generation types placed it at a disadvantage. If the attack on the ships failed to destroy them completely and had the squadrons suffered heavy losses then 114.2’s fighters would’ve been transferred to Simm’s carriers to finish the job.
      The Axis survey force dispatched its two remaining scouts to investigate the fast approach contacts. Speeding along, the first scout looked at Simm’s ships. The scout captain felt embolden to come even closer after seeing just destroyers and frigates at 10 LS range. At 6.25 light seconds the scout turned about and kept station, knowing that he was just outside the range of externally-fired capital missiles. After five minutes it appeared the Tzelan ships mounted no such missiles; if they did, then they had no targeting scanners for their fire control systems to utilize, or they were simply saving ammunition.
      Simm gave the scout another minute before giving the order to fire. Each pair of Couts was datalinked to a Provem, and on their external racks were SBMs. Having been cut off for months, there was no way the survey force could know about the missile’s enhanced range. It also helped matters that the scout presented its stern aspect to Simm’s ships. With no interference from point defense the scout was destroyed so quickly that the survey force received no distress message. Only the disappearance from the long-range sensor plots told them that the ship was gone.
      As for the scout sent to TE 114.2 its captain was more cautious. The ship stayed at a range of 7.75 LS, just outside the reach of internally-launched capital missiles. Like the first, however, this captain kept station and matched speed of its quarry. The two light carriers and their destroyer escort had SBMs on their racks, but the warheads were antimatter instead of nuclear. Of the fifteen missiles fired only three hit. It was enough as the scout splintered and then exploded as containment of its fusion plant failed. For the remaining three hours until the fighter strike was in range Axis officers could only speculate what kind of weapons were employed to dispatch the scouts.
      With such sudden deaths it was highly unlikely any pods were launched from the scouts. Even if they had the survivors could expect no rescue. News of the atrocities inflicted on the Hamthen by the Axis was something that even the Tzelan couldn’t rationalize. So the ships sped on after reloading their external racks, not even looking back on their handiwork. All they cared about was the fact that 200 Axis personnel would no longer be a threat to anyone again.
      To further play on the Axis anxiety Garon had the fighters launched at a range that appeared to be a one-way suicide trip. Garon and the pilots wished to see the contorted look of disbelief on the enemy’s face as the fighters passed the one-hour mark, the limit for prototype fighters. Moving at maximum tactical speed of a BC, the Axis force didn’t de-tune their engines for again there was no way to affect permanent repairs.
      Flash, the strike commander, ran over the attack plan in his mind one last time as the squadrons entered 5 LS range of the ships. Instead deciding the issue in one go this was part one of a two-phase attack. Stand-off fighter missiles, an invention of the Terpla’ns, were loaded in lieu of antimatter short-range attack missiles. So armed each squadron could fire 18 in one volley, but an Axis datalink group could defend itself quite well.
      This was the point where Axis standard procedure would play its part. The survey destroyers had no capital point defense, and would likely keep their stern aspects facing the fighters even as the battlecruisers turned to bring their Dc’s into action as the fighters reach 1.25 LS range. Though fired just outside the maximum effective range of the fighter stand-off missiles, enough would get through to the destroyer target and the degraded point defense of its two datalink partners. Destruction of the three destroyers would help lessen overall fighter losses in the second phase of the plan.
      It came as a surprise to Flash and the rest when Garon presented the attack plan. From the way the Valhallan was going about it for the past month it was going to be a blood and fire affair worthy of belligerent gods and opera. Now it appears that someone persuaded Garon to be more conscious about reducing losses. Perhaps the Universal Soul had a hand in it, seeing that the Valhallan had been taught mediation techniques under the tutelage of Communications Officer Batt.
      The range dropped, and as predicted the BCs turned as the fighters entered range of the capital point defense systems. While the BCs activated ECM the destroyers didn’t, totally in the dark of what was going to happen next. Flash felt his fighter shake slightly as the missiles left their rails. Unable to utilize its own point defense the first destroyer used those on its datalink partners. Even so, due to the aspect, the intercept resolutions were below par and the target had no EDMs on its external racks. Three salvos turned the ship into a barely crawling wreck.
      It was worse for destroyer #2. It could only use the point defense of one other ship. With three squadron dedicated to it there was no chance. Multiple explosions like a spasmodic strobe light marked the destroyer’s death.
      The battlecruisers scored, knocking out three fighters assigned to the Summer Gale. Even that wasn’t enough to prevent the last destroyer, now totally unable to defend itself, from being attacked by the last nine fighters. Like the first, this ship too became a crippled, debris-spewing ruin. As the strike pulled away Flash noted on his plot that the BCs and CAs launched small craft to take off survivors. The ships didn’t slow down; minutes later word was received from the Autumn Wind that the two cripples had disappeared from long range scans, most likely scuttled.
      Landing back on the carrier Flash and his pilots were greeted with well-earned congratulations by the deck crew. Detached from his seat Flash stood up and removed his helmet, donning a pair of sunglasses handed to him by the fighter’s crew chief. Minutes later, after having removed flight gear for duty jumpsuits, the pilots entered the briefing room for a post-strike assessment. Garon was there, along with Captain Simm and Commander Kapp.
      “Congratulations on a well-executed attack,” Garon applauded. “Destruction of the three survey destroyer reduced their overall anti-fighter coverage by 18%. With those three gone, each of the six remaining ships will get their own dedicated squadron with the remaining nine fighters acting as ‘Johnny-on-the-spot’ to pick off the cripples. As for the three fighters we lost the Spice Clipper is being sent forward to conduct a search and rescue operation.”
      “As fortunate as we were,” Simm said in a heartbeat, “losses will be heavier in the second attack. To minimize those losses, like we’ve done in the first attack by employing stand-off missiles on the fighters, our destroyers will assist in the attack. With the Provems providing long-range targeting data, the destroyers will attack those ships that employ point defense against fighters at one light-second range. Even a few hits by antimatter missiles will assist in the overall destruction of the Axis force.”
      Kapp stepped forward. “The Axis force is now moving at maximum tactical speed. Even so we’ll reach the second launch point in ninety minutes. After Lt. Helmstrong is finished here you may relax in the lounge, but report to the hanger fifteen minutes prior to launch.” Placing a hand on Garon’s shoulder, Kapp smiled as he flicked his ears. “You’ll be pleased to know that, as part of the officer exchange program, Mr. Helmstrong has the option of participating in a strikefighter sortie should the opportunity present itself. With his strikefighter training, and having qualified to pilot a Firefly in the simulators aboard ship, Mr. Helmstrong will be the pilot for the strike commander.” He looked at Flash. “Now you all know why he frequented the simulators late at night. He was preparing for this battle, not to find faults to knit-pick in post-exercise debriefings.”
      Before Flash could work up the nerve to talk Simm spared him the effort. “With that said,” he announced, “let’s proceed with the post-battle analysis.”

Having been so completely blindsided by Kapp’s revelation the pilots of the Autumn Wind didn’t even talk about it when they retired to the lounge. Instead they meditated, trying to gain wisdom and guidance from the Universal Soul for the upcoming attack. When the time came they found Garon waiting, outfitted in an adapted Valhallan flightsuit. He was standing by Flash’s Firefly, admiring the squadron’s nickname, The Mad Monks, written in bright red Tzelan script.
      Also wearing sunglasses, Garon’s made a smile that matched the one made by Flash over a month ago. “As I understand it,” he said in a lighthearted manner that survived translation into Tzelan, “your squadron chose this name just one week after its formation. I understand it was because their leader was a young monk, one that answered the call to serve his nation in its time of need. That, or because he was not suited to the monkish lifestyle due to… desires of the feminine persuasion?”
      “You being an officer of His Majesty’s Navy,” Flash threw back with flippancy, “one does not discuss the faults of one’s friends in open company.” He pointed to the boarding ladder. “Since you picked this Firefly from all the others you better get up there and prime the systems. You know that whoever’s going to be my front seat would also be the leading pilot of the strike.”
      “Exactly why I chose your rig, Flash.”

All launched, forty-five fighters lead the way with the destroyers, frigates, and escort carriers following close behind. The possibility existed that the Axis ships would detune their engines, prompting Simm to do the same, but an engine burn-out would hurt them more than the Allies. It was timed to the second so that when the Fireflies reached 1 LS range from the Axis ships the Okados, Provems, and the Rundenro that comprised the first two datagroups would be within range for their external capital missiles. The four Couts and two Rundenros, comprising the other two datagroups, lacking tactical scanners, would detune their engines for one minute so they could fire their loads at a range of 5 LS.
       Time to target was thirty minutes. Flash was working on contingency commands for anticipated strike losses from point defense when Garon called him. “Hey, Chief,” the Valhallan said, “switch to the private circuit.”
      “Okay, you have my ears,” Flash replied.
      Garon chuckled. “Just so you know, Captain Simm did tell me about your record prior to naval service. If I had your problems then I would be motivated to put as much distance between myself and a shotgun-wielding father as possible.”
      “That salty old curmudgeon.” Flash said in a despondent tone. “If it hadn’t been for that incident at the spaceport Simm wouldn’t have been all the wiser.”
      “I won’t ask you about that, Flash. As long as it’s something that doesn’t impact the crew or mission I don’t care.” A moment pass, Garon swearing he heard the mental relief coming from Flash. “By the way, for being an off-putting, prudish officer of His Majesty’s Navy, no-one asked why I was only a serving pilot for four months. After all the training, material, and money spent the normal tour was for two years. Have you wondered why, Flash?”
      “Was it because you got that plumb assignment of being an Admiral’s aide?” Flash offered.
      “Oh, yes, but not for the reasons you might expect. Flash, for all your faults you’re a decent man, otherwise you wouldn’t have become a pilot in the first place, let alone a squadron commander.”
      “That means a lot coming from you, Garon,” the Tzelan said, voice devoid of any sarcasm for Garon spoke with sincerity. “Why was your piloting career so short?”
      Garon exhaled, determined to carry through. “It was after a system-wide exercise, the pilots of the defense wing decided to attend a party. Located at a relatively remote resort complex, the Barrier Net Convention was promoted as a place where pilots, both space and atmospheric, could attend lectures and symposiums about their trade. In reality it was a cover for lewd escapades that more than made the case for the sexual maniac image our carrier pilots are known for. What I saw there made me thoroughly disgusted, and started to leave. Well, imagine my surprise when I came across some senior officers whom I thought in a million years would never…”
      A credit to Flash, for being a pilot he had to think fast on his feet, he knew what was next. “You blackmailed an Admiral?!”
      “When a palm is out there it begs to be greased,” Garon said with no shame. “I got my plum assignment with enough stars behind me to fill a flag. For anyone that asked, it was because the Admiral that I worked for was, literally, a friend of the family and was doing my father a favor. For my part, I acted out my truly felt disgust about the behavior I saw at Barrier Net. That’s the real reason I’ve been treating the pilots the way I did, nipping their good humor in the bud and punishing them with simulated death.”
      Flash chuckled. “And here I thought that being an unrepentant ass was part of RVSN officer training. I can only hope for your remaining five months you’ll be far less of an ass and more friendly.”
      “I’ll have my work cut out for me. Flash, if we make it out of this battle I’ll buy the first round for all the pilots in the strike.”
      “Fine with me, Garon. I don’t have that kind of money to throw around anyway.”

The Axis ships didn’t begin zigzagging until the fighters were 2 LS away. ECM had spun up one minute earlier, an aftereffect of the earlier fighter missile strike. Not knowing what other surprises were in store the enemy captains were taking precautions.
      Once again on schedule the BCs, followed this time by the CAs, turned so that their point defense systems could be brought to bear on the Fireflies. First to fire was one datagroup of destroyers, launching their externally mounted capital missiles at a range of 6 LS. Luck, and perhaps a little help from the Universal Soul had six of the nine missiles lock onto an Axis BC. Forced to use its two Dc’s because they were better for missile defense, only two broke through but was enough to take down 89% of the shields, all thanks to antimatter warheads.
      Paranoid, the other two BCs only used their Dc’s against the fighters, saving their regular datalink Ds to fend off missiles. They succeeded in knocking out three Fireflies from a squadron based on the Spring Gust. As a group the BCs flushed their racks, only to have seven out of twenty-four capital missiles locking onto a frigate. With the datalink help of an Okado and a Provem the FG only received two hits, a fortunate affair because antimatter armed capital missiles were on the FGs racks. In reply the FG and its DD partners fired back, this time at a freighter CA. Only one hit was scored, but two point defense stations were tied down. It didn’t matter since the three CAs had no multiplex tracking, having decided to flush their racks too at the FG. One missile broke past the lasers and interceptor missiles, knocking out half of the armor and now-empty racks.
      The DDs and FG detuned their engines. It would be 90 seconds before they were able to fire their on-board missile launchers. Slightly behind, the CVEs and two FGs would be in range in 90 seconds as well. Now at 0.5 LS the Axis ships, undistracted by missiles, fired all available weapons at the Fireflies. Once again only three were shot down, two of them being from Winter Breeze.
      Maneuvering like a wrangler breaking in a new horse Garon confounded the enemy’s point defense solutions while closing the range. Down at the wire, Flash sent the final attack priorities based on the losses sustained so far. His own squadron, the Mad Monks, went after the BC that took the two missile hits. Of the eighteen FRAMs carried fifteen hit, turning the ship into a pyrotechnic worthy of Hell. ECM from the enemy only degraded targeting by 10%, and that wasn’t enough even at point-blank range. For the loss of just two more fighters all six ships were destroyed
      Captain Simm gave the order for all ships to stand down from battlestations. Cutters and shuttles went out to search for pilots that managed to eject from their fighters. Only four hours were spent searching since the emergency life support built into the ejection seats lasted only for 3 ½ hours. As for the enemy there were no escapes pods, their destruction being comprehensive and quick. For the record a total of 11 pilots were rescued, including two from the first strike. At the cost of 11 fighters, 11 pilots and armor damage to a frigate TE 114.1 wiped out ten Axis ships.
      The Firefly carrying Flash and Garon was the last to land. Greeting them were the other pilots of Autumn Wind’s strikewing. They were chanting Garon’s name like he was a winning ball player. “What have I done to deserve this?” he asked of Flash.
      Pocketing the sunglasses just given to him by his crew chief Flash put a hand on Garon’s shoulder. “Our strikewing was the only one not to suffer casualties. These cheeseheads think it has to do something with your piloting skills in face of enemy defensive fire or you’ve been blessed by the Universal Soul.”
      “You think they can hold their adulation until after the debriefing?” Garon said even as the pilots picked him up and carried him away above their heads.
      “They’re saving the best for last,” Flash almost shouted as he brought up the rear.

Just as the debriefing ended Garon was once again carried away, this time to the rec hall. Those officers, non-coms and crew currently off-duty attended as well. Captain Simm gave a brief speech about their success and then told them to indulge themselves, toasting their good fortune as well as commemorate those that had fallen in battle.
      The fun kicked into high gear as Tattoo gave Garon some ink on his right shoulder. Written in black were the words ‘VF-32 Mad Monks’ with the number 31 right below it, informing whomever saw it that the bearer was the 31st member of that particular fraternity of flyers. Before he could admire Tattoo’s handiwork in a mirror Jelly approached. Apparently having down some homebrewed Dandelion wine just after landing it was clear that further consumption had released him from reason and responsibility. In his mouth he had one of the few remaining Bayside cigars, unlit but covered in chocolate. He practically inhaled the stogie, gave it a few chews and swallowed it, chasing it down with more wine. First extending his hand in congratulations, Jelly pulled Garon right up to his face. With breath that could make a marine cry he then surprised everyone by giving the Valhallan a kiss on the lips. He then hit Garon’s still-tender tattoo with a slap that was as loud as it was painful. “Welcome to the club, Big Red,” Jelly slurred as he collapsed to the floor.
      Flash and Pickles were all smiles as they had took pictures and video of the event. Now their squadron scrapbooks really had something to commemorate Autumn Wind’s first combat deployment.

03/16/08
updatede 05/22/08

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