Tommy Thorn Marked (16 page)

Gary leaned in to Tommy. “Cheery guy.”

Tommy playfully pushed him back and smiled, earning a scowl from Bo.

“Okay.” Vance clapped his hands together to break the solemn mood. “Let’s get started.

Long months passed as the Hawks plowed through the advanced-training syllabus in the clear air over Slater, but finally the eighteen remaining pilots of the Nickel were ready for space flight. The Saber Hawks were finally going to the Nova.

The trip to the waiting battle cruiser would be flown in two sections of nine birds each, eight of which would be flown solo, and one, the lead, flown as a dual. Some unfortunate student in the first section would have Vance in their backseat.

Tommy, flying with Bo and Gary in the first section out, had been assigned to fly Saber Hawk Two. This position was the first Lancer in the right half of a V formation that swept back and away from the lead ship.

“Close it up, Figgins,” Tommy heard Commander Vance say over his comm. And turning his head, Tommy looked back over his shoulder through the clear steel of his long bubble canopy to watch as Ensign Figgins edged his ship a little closer to Bo’s right wing-panel.

Just past Figgins, Gary’s Lancer moved to stay even with the erratic maneuvering of Saber Hawk Four. Tommy could see his friend’s head moving with the beat of some song he knew was blasting over his helmet’s comm gear. He was impressed by the ease at which Gary flew the sleek, light gray trainer. Tommy thought again how much he admired the guy’s calm, devil-may-care attitude, and how comforting it was to be able to look over and see his bobbing helmet.

“That’s your spot, ensign, now stay there,” Vance said to Figgins while monitoring the formation and at the same time keeping a wary eye on his pilot, Ensign Magnus. Magnus was no doubt squirming a bit in the front seat as he led the formation of AT-108’s on a wide, almost vertical crescent into the cold, darkening sky twenty miles above the Slate.

Tommy, still thinking of the songs Gary had shared before the launch, grinned behind his faceplate and updated the navigation information for the Nova intercept. Of course, all he had to do was stay tucked up under Vance’s wing panel, but as the blackness of space closed in, it was comforting to know where he was and that he could, if needed, get home on his own.
Home
, he thought and quickly shook off the feeling.

The sensations of piloting the Lancer in the fringes of space were not new to Tommy or his classmates, as they had routinely flown training hops to altitudes well over 120,000 feet. But those flights had been primarily flown with an instructor strapped in the rear seat, and at any rate those flights had never seemed far from the bright, warm, thick air of the Slate.

“Settle, Hawks,” Vance said reassuringly as Razeier turned into a distant brown-blue ball. “Confirm pressurization schedules and complete your deep space configuration checks.”

Tommy had already started his checklist, happy to have something to occupy his mind. He had made an endless number of arrested landings over the last six months, but those had been simulated.
And this
, he thought as the distance closed to the waiting Nova, is for real.

“Nova from Saber Hawk Lead.” Vance’s voice broke the eerie silence.

“This is Nova-con, go ahead, Saber Hawk Lead.”

Tommy searched the blackness off the nose of his Lancer for any sign of the massive warship but of course saw nothing, as they were still a good distance out.

“Flight of nine inbound Lancers for approach and landing,” Vance responded.

“Saber Hawk Lead, Nova-con, you are cleared Baker. Contact Recovery Command and Control when at the perch.”

“Copy, cleared Baker, contact Reece at perch. Saber Hawk Lead—out.”

Tommy continued to focused on the rock-steady wing panel of Hawk Lead. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the readouts projected on his visor, he would have thought the entire formation was standing still.

“Hawks, standby to slow—six five zero,” Vance coolly said.

Tommy brought up his flight control panel and began punching in a velocity setting of 6,500 miles per hour.

“Two,” Tommy acknowledged when the task had been completed, and waited as the rest of the flight checked in.

“Three, four…” And so on until all eight Hawks had responded.

“Execute,” Vance finally ordered, and Tommy along with the rest of the flight engaged their newly commanded velocity. Inertial dampeners, set to max, absorbed or negated forces that would have slammed the pilots against the canopy as forward thrusters silently fired and slowed down their trainers.

The formation continued inbound for some time, with Vance reporting when at the invisible Baker. Then, just five hundred miles from the battle cruiser, he instructed Mags to fly a direct course to the perch—a point that was perpendicular and astern of the Nova.

“Mr. Papas, go now landing echelon right,” Vance said, making eye contact with the young student leading the four ships on the left side of the V formation.

The echelon formation would put all of the Hawks in a line, each stepped back and out slightly to the right from the ship directly in front of them. This was a standard formation used to facilitate and expedite the roll-in to the four landing platforms and recovery tubes.

“Copy, Lead,” Papas replied.

Vance twisted in his seat, first left then right, watching closely as Papas led the four ships into their new position. He was pleased with the precision Papas had used to complete the maneuver, but in his scrutiny Vance had noticed that, once again, Figgins had strayed out of formation.

“Hawk Four from Lead,” Vance called over to Figgins.

Alerted to a possible problem, Tommy turned again to check on Four’s position, and in doing so could clearly see the large red Hawk patch on the back of Bo’s helmet as she too turned to check on Figgins.

“Lead to Four—come in Saber Hawk Four.” Commander Vance’s voice was calm but insistent.

Bo looked from Figgins, who was now dropping out of position, back to Tommy. And while raising a gloved hand, she wiggled her fingers while shaking her head.

It wasn’t uncommon for students, confronted for the first time with the isolation of space while confined in a small cockpit, to freak out a little. In fact, even high-time pilots flying alone could be overcome with a sudden dread, which resulted in a number of predictable symptoms. An elevated heart rate, hyperventilation, numbness in the extremities, and even confusion could, without warning, overtake a pilot. Now none of these sensations were in themselves fatal, but if they occurred while flying five feet from your wingman at six thousand miles per hour…

Of course, this phenomenon had been thoroughly briefed, and students had been taught a number of techniques, which if employed could be used to overcome or at least diminish the effects. But now Ensign Figgins, who was two hours from Razeier and still out of visual range of the Nova, was on the ragged edge of sheer panic. All thoughts of flying the Lancer now forgotten, he could not control his breathing, nor his wildly pounding heartbeat, and the young pilot was suddenly overcome with an intense need to open his faceplate.
I must
get free of this damn suit!

“Ensign Figgins, this is Commander Vance—respond,”

Figgins had dropped below and was drifting well behind Saber Hawk Nine, sliding alone into the blackness.

“Saber Hawk Two, take the lead. Cruise, close up on Three,” Vance commanded. He dipped his right wing panel and disappeared below Tommy.

“Saber Hawk Two has the lead,” Tommy said, trying very hard to sound casual, but inside his mind was reeling.
Okay, the Nova is directly ahead moving at 4,800 miles per hour. We will need to slow to 3,500 before the perch—no, at the perch…

“Just stay on this heading, Thorn, nice and easy.” Vance, his ship already out of sight, came back on comm. The control and calm in his voice was instantly reassuring.

“Thorn from Seven, tally on the Nova, mark—two ninner eight off the nose,” Maco announced coldly.

All eyes focused on the coordinates, hoping to locate the flashes of red light that would designate the battle cruiser.

“Copy Seven, I’ve got a tally,” Tommy responded and then added, “Hawks, make your velocity three four zero.”

Tommy punched in the new velocity and waited for the flight to check in.

“Engage,” he finally said, watching the projected yellow symbol for the perch moving to a position that would very quickly intersect with the formation.

The flight was closing fast now on a parallel course to the Nova, which was drifting along a straight vector, just maintaining momentum at a leisurely speed of 4,800 miles per hour. Tommy could clearly see the cruiser’s lights framed against the black canvas of space as his formation of trainers silently slid past on the left.

“Reece, from Saber Hawk Lead—perch”, Tommy announced.

“Reece to Saber Hawk Lead, you are cleared approach vector Kilo. All tubes are green, report the outer marker.”

“Thorn, we need to wait for Vance,” Maco blurted out over the comm.

“Papas from Lead, take your separation and standby for the call,” Tommy said, ignoring Maco.

The Nova had only four arresting ramps and recovery tubes. Papas would extend his four ships down track, allowing Tommy’s flight to break left, roll in, and get into the tubes with five minutes of separation from the Papas flight.

“Copy Lead, good luck,” Papas smartly replied.

“Thorn!” Maco shouted.

“Get the hell off the comm, Maco. Tommy has the lead!” Gary yelled.

“Everybody relax,” Tommy said, taking control. “Just remember your training and hit your marks. I’ll see ya on the deck. Saber Hawk Lead—out.”

At nine miles, Tommy rolled 180 degrees, pulling the nose of his Lancer around to face the aft end of the Nova, and began his inbound run with a closure of five hundred miles per hour.

“Bo, Gary—go now,” Tommy commanded.

The other two Lancers in Tommy’s flight spread out abreast, each lining up on an arresting ramp.

Releasing the throttle, Tommy reached forward with the index finger of his gloved left hand and punched the mag-track button

“Electromagnetic traction engaged.” The onboard computer voice confirmed what the now yellow cockpit light indicated.

Battle cruisers brought ships into the hanger bay by utilizing a strong magnetic pulse imbedded in each of the four, 150-foot-long arresting ramps. These strips radiated a powerful invisible force that reacted with a pair of magnetic bands, which when activated and deployed, were used to grab and secure each craft before they were allowed to transition past the outer pressure doors of the recovery tube.

At four miles…

“Reece, Saber Hawk Two—tracked—tube Alpha,” Tommy announced at the outer marker.

Once the flight split, all birds reverted back to individual call signs.

Above the first tube on the left, secure behind thick clear steel, a recovery controller acknowledged the deployment of Tommy’s mag-track, the mass of the Lancer, and then again confirmed that the appropriate output for the magnetic recovery system had been set. Once satisfied that all was in order, he cycled the projected mile-long string of flashing approach lights from yellow to green.

“Control to Saber Hawk Two, cleared tube Alpha.”

And with that, Tommy was on his own. The green strobes of Alpha reached out from the down-curved forward lip of the ramp, aiding with the lineup. But Tommy was oblivious to their sequenced rhythm as he focused all of his attention on the flight path and color-coded vector indicator now dancing in front of his faceplate.

In theory, the arrested landing aboard the Nova, or any battle cruiser, was a pretty straightforward procedure. Check dampeners—set to max, velocity—standard recovery was five hundred clicks per hour, and maintain a vector ten feet above the ramp, plus or minus two feet. The distance above the ramp was critical, as it had to be within the electromagnetic recovery system’s operational limits, too high and the mag-track would not engage. And if the mag-track didn’t engage, the pilot would, if not waved off, or if the auto-abort system failed, slam into the rear protective shield covering the raised outer doors of the recovery tube. There would be a flash, a momentary fireball, then the cruiser would move away. In this case, at 4,800 miles per hour, to continue with the recovery of other ships—no need to send out search and rescue, just a “we’re sorry for your loss” note to the next of kin.

Tommy worked to control his breathing, pulling deep breaths of cold oxygen through the mask integrated into his faceplate, and made a conscious effort to relax his death grip on the side stick—commonly called, squeezing black juice.

You’re too high
, he said to himself.
Get it down
. The projected flight path turned from yellow to green.
Speed looks good.
The flight path flashed yellow.
Damn it
! “Get on the path, Tommy,” he yelled to himself as if reinforcing the urgency of the task.

“Watch your vector,” the controller cautioned, his voice calm and steady, then continued, “lineup is good—speed is good. You’re locked and in the groove, Two.”