: “ Angels of War ”

TASK FORCE 73, CARRIER BATTLE GROUP INDOMITABLE (CVBG-I)

TCS Mistral Sea; Air Group Rec Room
MAR 18, 2681/2681.077 ; 0600 Hours (CST)

Nick finally found his way around the huge carrier to where the main bar was. If there was one thing that Nick didn’t like about the Mistral Sea’s design, it was the fact that if he was in the port bow, he’ll have to go all the way to the stern of the carrier, and then go back to the front to see the starboard bow. Nick actually did that, until he found out that there was a system of small ‘shuttles’ that ferried people to and fro all around the carrier and that it ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Nick mentally kicked himself for not knowing that beforehand.

So after a while of wandering around, he finally found the bar. The moment he entered, he knew that he was in pilot country. Nick knew that what his squadron used to do was to hang around the bars in nighttime when he was back on the good ol’ Invincible. Now on Mistral Sea, that hadn’t changed a single bit.

The official terminology was the 46th Superiority Fighter Squadron, 46th SFS for short. But for all of the Confed Space Force, it was known and recognized simply as “Death Angel Squadron”. Their hardcore training program, superior flying and gunnery tactics, ruthless efficiency, violent and brutal combat attitude, aggressive and competent leadership, and killscore statistics had earned them utter respect throughout the Confed Space Force. They had a reputation as being one of the premier and dangerous space superiority squadrons in Confed. They were so dangerous that during peacetime, they were decommissioned with the fact that ConFleet had considered them a public relations liability at that time.

To the Kilrathi, the Death Angel squadron had been infamously notorious. They were the few Terrans that the Kilrathi actually looked upon as ‘predators’ rather then ‘prey’. That was the result of not luck, but through an intense rigorous training program Nick put all his squadron through to ensure that they were prepared for war. After all, WAR means “We Are Ready.” Their tactics during the Battle of Cynium were legendary.

Death Angel squadron were not the normal "fighter jock" stereotype that one would see in holo-movies; they were on the other hand harsh professionals who would stop at nothing in order to get the job done. They tackled their missions with mentality, maybe a little bit too much mentality. If there were something negative to be said about the pilots of Death Angel squadron, it would be that they were dedicated in anything they want to do that they would steamroll over anybody that tries to get in their way and wouldn’t give a damn about the consequences.

And when they did go to war, a lot more of the enemy died then they did. They were battle-harded and salty. Other squadrons of the Fleet respected (and stayed clear of) them. Their enemies feared them. They had fought Black Lance Dragons in the Confederation’s mopping up of Rogue Black Lance units during the Hunt-Down. They had fought Kilrathi after Kilrathi in the Second Kilrathi War. They went up against overwhelming and impossible odds during the legendary Battle of Cynium. After the Treaty of McAuliffe the Confed Space Force changed. New squadrons were commissioned, old fighters were retired and new fighters took their place. But in spite of all of those chances, Death Angel squadron was back again, and with the new F-109A Vampire fighter and on the TCS Mistral Sea.

The Death Angel squadron was made up of a majority of veteran pilots. They had more Majors and Captains then the other squadrons, for most of them were already battle-tested. The few Lieutenants in the squadron were among the most talented of the fresh meat. The 46th was one of the first Vampire squadrons in service, and from what it seems lately on the logistics side, they were one of the very few Vampire squadrons actually in service. The hard fact was that the 46th was one of the three Vampire squadron in the entire Vega Sector. Most of the other Confed space superiority squadrons were given the Panther fighter.

The sixteen pilots in Nick’s squadron (him included) had been labeled malcontents, drunkards, troublemakers, renegades, rogues, and "goons" by tight-ass, by-the-book, top-brass ringknockers, but in Nick’s opinion, these pilots were some of the most talented pilots in the Confed Space Force. After all, "schwarzbotch" means different to different people. They had extreme motivation, morale, intelligence, ability, talent, loyalty, and the knowledge to suffer in silence if they, or Nick, fuck up. Most of them have been, as those weapon ads love to say, battle-tested and combat-proven in countless number of times. And they were willing to follow Nick into Hell if needed, and they have been in a couple of places that made Hell seem like a fucking tropical paradise.

Out of the sixteen fighter pilots, only half actually came from the Space Force Academy. The others were commissioned through Space Force ROTC or OCS programs. Few others were ex-enlisted men from both the Space Force and the Marine Corps. One of the things Nick learned during the War was that it wasn’t a military academy education that made heroes, it was the guts of a person that did. The people assigned to his squadron were picked because of their combat skill and potential, not how they good they can debate or any of that intellectual abilities that the Academy teaches now. It’s a sorry situation when the same school that gave the service Christopher Blair, James Taggart, Jeanette Devereaux, Todd Marshall, Ian St. John, and other famous war-heroes are now producing brilliance-dealing, test-cheating, CO fucking, bureaucrat officers who piss their pants at the thought of making WAR.

However, few of the new guys were cherries, newly minted plebes with fresh butter bars. They might have been young, but these new Second Lieutenants were the top of the already capable set of young newbie pilots. This was the post-war Fleet, there was no excuse for laziness or inefficiency. Nick knew that these were a new generation of squadron commanders, and it was his job to prepare them to lead. Nick looked around the bar. It looked like the majority of the squadron was there, but others were off doing something else. Nick shrugged to himself, he’ll get to know them all within some time.

Nick walked over to one of the Majors sitting over by the side. The man was the same age as Nick and he was talking to someone else when he looked up and saw Nick. His face was battle-hardened, and his hair was long, up to the point of military regulations. He stared at him for a few moments until a shit-eating grin came on his face, “Hey, Nick,

you old sob! I hadn’t seen ya in a while.” The man stood up and clapped Nick in the shoulder. “Man, it’s been a while.” Nick gave a “and fuck you very much back too Jake!” and the two men laughed it off. It was good to meet up with an old friend, Nick thought, especially if it was Jake.

Major Jake Wintersteen and Nick have gone way back, to the days when Christ was just a mess cook. They grew up together, went to the same school together, went to the Academy together, got in trouble together, and fought together. Nick regarded Jake, his callsign Slayer, as one of his best buddies. Slayer was a tall thin-drink of water, but very fast in his feet, and strong as hell. His primary hobby was flying, his second was bar fighting and he had the scars to prove both of em. Slayer also had a mischievous roguish mind, and he knew a lot of profane vocabulary and wasn’t afraid to use it. Jake was a Major, and the XO of the squadron. Jake was one that Nick could always trust to have on his wing.

Major Jennifer Chen was another. She was a beautiful Taiwanese pilot who had just got her majority at the age of twenty-nine. Her callsign was Passion, which was the result of a very sensitive, caring, and emotional personality that not made her only good looking, but also very caring as a friend. She was yin to Nick’s yang. While Nick tend to be moody, dark, gloomy, and just scary; Jennifer tended to be polite, caring, beaming passionate, and friendly. She was Nick’s wingman for quite a while and the two functioned really well as a team. Nick intended her to be his wingman once again; he could trust her to pull his ass out of a fire if the shit really hit the fan and she did in a countless number of times.

Jenn’s shoulder length black hair was all shiny and luxurious; her face was beautiful and angelic. Her flight suit revealed a nice trim figure, the result of a strictly low-fat diet and plenty of exercise.

“It’s so great to see you again Nick! I missed you so much!” Jennifer said as she reached over to Nick and gave him a hug, and then she gave that beautiful smile in Nick’s face. Sometimes even battle-hardened blood-thirsty combat vets have soft spots, and Nick gave a smile towards Jennifer, “And nice to see you too Jenn.” Jennifer gave another smile and said, “Later on we got to catch up on a lot of things, like what happened after your retirement. We’ll talk later, but please do see the rest of the squadron. We have a lot of catching up to do.” Jenn smiled and let Nick meet the rest of the squadron.

There were other two Majors have been assigned to the squadron, and even though Nick never worked with them before, he knew them by reputation. They were hard-charging motivated mofos who will stop at nothing to get the job done, even if it means turning over every rock and burning every system and killing anyone that gets in their way. Nick’s kind of people. He saw the first one, sitting on the table doing nothing but playing with a pack of cards. His hair was cut high and tight in a Marine crew cut style, and his face looked aggressive and mean.

Major Joe Foxworth was an ex-Marine who used to do sneak and peak missions with the elite Marine Commando as an enlisted man. He had won a Silver Star during a dangerous behind-the-lines mission (author’s note: which still remains classified folks), one of the things that you volunteered for when you were just a young twenty-year old Corporal and didn’t know how to volunteer yourself other then to become cannon fodder.

Foxworth prides himself for being a "mustang," an officer who moved up from the enlisted ranks. Instead of the Academy (AKA "College for dummies" as he refers to it ), he got his commission from Space Force OCS. Known as "Hard Rock" for his extremely motivated hardcore attitude and sometimes-orgasmic pleasure in killing things (preferably cat-like living beings with fur, claws, and were named Kilrathi), Brown had transferred into the cockpit, where he took the fight to the enemy and let them have no mercy. Just the type of personality Nick wanted in a pilot. Yeah.

“Heard a lot about you, Colonel,” Foxworth said as he shook Nick’s hand. Nick could tell that Foxowrth was scanning him with his ice-cold eyes; it was that kind of eyes that let Nick know that Joe was a true warrior. It was the eyes that signified what he was. “I’m looking forward to working with you... sir,” Foxworth said with a smile that was 99% challenge and 1% sincerity. Nick smiled back in the same way; he already knew that he liked this guy.

Johann Reinhart Weber was the other Major. He was tall and blond, handsome, and had the perfect adonis figure. If he lived during the World War Two era back in the 20th Century Terra, he would have been an ideal recruiting model for Hitler’s SS. In the cockpit, he was calm and cool. Weber didn’t go to the Academy; he came from an ROTC unit on a Terran university. People who flew with him said that he didn’t talk much; he concentrates so much on his job that he sometimes forgets to talk. On the ship he doesn’t talk much either; he has a calm and cold era to him that some people find frightening. Frequently people would try to stay away from him.

Major Weber’s body was stacked together with the knotted muscles of a razorhog, and an implied menace shadowed his whole appearance. His eyes were dark, coffee-colored, and his jaw was an aggressive promontory. His expression had the violence and arrogance of a carnivore, for there was nothing in his demeanor where one could detect a glimmer of civilization. His entire body had a violent defination, a primal joy in aggression that caused men around him to afford him caution, and especially distance.

Weber had definitely been there and done that. During the Second Kilrathi War, he was assigned to 7th Fleet fighting the Cats in Vega Sector. He was flying a ground support mission when his Excalibur was shot down over a Kilrathi occupied planet teaming with not only Kats but other beast-like creatures as well. Weber spent weeks evading Kilrathi patrols and even hunted down some of the more dangerous carnivores for food until a Marine Expeditionary Brigade took over the planet and rescued him.

There were even rumors going around that during this time Weber had once chased down a deadly Cirrelean Cougar until it collapsed of fatigue and strangled the beast to death with his bare hands and then ate it for nourishment. The 4-inch beast claw that Weber wore around his neck (for good luck) proved it to be more then just a mere rumor.

Previously that morning, Nick had asked Major Weber why he had joined the Space Force for a career. “I joined the Space Force, sir, so I could help defend mankind confederation from all alien aggression” was the no-nonsense serious reply.

Nick had promptly nicknamed him “Mankind Confederation,” an appellation that Weber bristled at to the undiluted joy of his commanding officer.

Each day Weber ran six miles, worked out on the punching bag in the gym, and boxed a few rounds with anyone he could insult or lure into the ring with him. At lunch, he walked out to the flight deck holding a huge anvil that he kept in his stateroom. Without regard to who was watching, he would grab the anvil with his massive hands and pull it over his head. He repeated the ritual until he felt he had punished his body enough. The enlisted men quaked whenever he was in view. Officers feared his seemingly disturbed state of mind. Even Nick had no desire to start a fight with Weber. He would get his ass kicked 10 times over.

Nick went over to Weber’s table and immediately Major Weber stood up, with his back straight as an arrow, and gave a salute, “At ease, Major,” Nick said, taking a seat at his chair as Weber sat down on his, “Does my nickname for you still ruffle your feathers?”

Major Weber replied without any emotion in his voice, “I’ve never liked nicknames, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Well then, what was your callsign before now?”

“The instructors decided that there was no callsign to fit my personality, so they just called me by my last name: Weber.”

“Well, since I’m the CO, and I like nicknames for my troops, you’ll just have to put up with my nickname for you, Mankind Confederation. Do you read me loud and clear?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

Nick noted that Weber had no facial expression at all, his face was as emotional as a pet rock. “And one more thing, Major. My XO and I have been talking, and he and I would agree you’d get a lot more done if you wipe that silly grin off your face that you wear all the time.”

Weber’s face didn’t change in any expression. “Yes, sir,” he replied darkly.

“I mean it, Weber, you’re always fucking around, raising hell, getting drunk, screwing the enlisted women, telling vulgar bathroom stories, watching German ‘schitzer’ fetish pornovids, and playing practical jokes on junior officers. This has got... to... stop... Major.” Nick banged the table emphasizing the last four words, “You’ve got to be serious for once, man. We’re in the business of war, and we can’t have a Maniac Marshall screwball like you flying a state of the art aerospace fighter. It will be a bad example to the FNGs around here.”

“You are joking with me, aren’t you, sir?” Weber asked, as a slight smile began to build around his mouth.

“No! That’s not all!” Nick raised his voice, enjoying himself as he always did when facing a man totally without humor, “I’ve been looking at that fat-assed sloppy body of yours Weber, and I’m ordering you to start getting in shape. Yer a Death Angel, Weber, and you may think all of that baby fat is cute, but we got a reputation to uphold.”

The reply was, of course, expression less. “I keep in shape, sir. I’m in better shape then any pilot in this squadron and the air group, and I’ll prove it if you like.”

“I want you to take me more seriously, Major. You’ve got to try to be more literal. I never, and this is an order, I never... ever... want you to think I’m being sarcastic or that I’m shitting you. Because, Mankind Confederation, I mean what I say.” With that Nick rose from the table and went to meet the other members of the squadron.

“Hey, boss! Fuck you!” Nick turned around to see Captain James Patterson from across the room with a Coors Light on his hand. Nick really liked the guy. The old "Finger" was back, and he got a promotion too. Patterson was a hyperactive pilot who seemed to always seem to never stop moving. Sometimes Nick even thinks that the guy like inhales sugar by the mouthful and he was always frigging hyper. Still, Nick can trust Finger to raise hell anyday. It was great to have Finger around, he was a damn good pilot and he could trust him to ice an enemy before it got him.

Patterson played Mutt to Captain Adam Thompson’s Jeff. Thompson’s callsign was Gunther, because someone once remarked that he looked like an ungainly German Kraut. Tanned, trim, and muscular (not to mention horny), Adam really didn’t like it at all and was used to being taunted by it. Fortunately for Adam, all that attention pretty much gone away now that Major Weber was in the squadron. But still, everyone still called him Gunther. It used to been Spanky a while back, that was attributed to Thompson getting a little excited over a Playboy magazine that he felt like standing up and waving the centerfold around in class back at the Academy.

Nick was glad that the hellraising duo was back; Mutt and Jeff had raised hell not only with the Kilrathi, but also with some of their tight-ass by-the-book Confederation comrades, which earned them a really well known reputation. They were a pretty damn good team, and they could be counted on to get the job done.

First Lieut - no, Nick observed, now Captain Ashley Spruell knew what to expect from Nick, she had served under him from their last tour. Medium height and with shoulder length brown hair, she had stirred the heartbeat of many a man. She didn’t go to the Academy but like Hans Weber, she was damn smarter then ninety-nine percent of them and she knew how to keep her own defenses up as well. Nick remembered last year when Ashley, callsign "Ginger," had kicked a man in the balls when he made advances towards her. The entire incident was a riot throughout the ship.

As a pilot, she knew when to be professional and to act serious and she proved that to him in combat. After the war, Ashley volunteerly left the Space Force and settled down. They were given an option for their next tour of duty, and their first choice was to be wherever their CO was. So soon, they had orders cut out for her and they were assigned once again to Death Angel Squadron. She definitely had combat experience; she was one of the survivors of the slaughter at Cynium.

Nick then introduced himself to Captain ‘Two Cows” Lombardo. A dark, grizzled man with a face that looked like a Plunkett cruiser had plasma bombarded it many times over. His craggy features and eyes had the face of a combat vet who had been around for too long. He was the squadron Flight Captain, the most senior O-3 (Captain) officer. He was in his mid-30s, being commissioned after 7 years as a grease monkey in the Fleet.

A former Excalibur pilot like the majority of Death Angel squadron, Chuck Lombardo got his moniker during flight training when he mistaken a farm for a gunnery range. Instead of hitting the target, the energy bolts accidently killed a pair of cows who were unfortunate to be grazing in the wrong place at the wrong time. As compensation for a very pissed off farmer about to sue for loss of property, Confed had to buy a pair of cows as replacements. The name stuck. Admonished by the entire incident, Two Cows rose to become one of the best gunnery specialists in the squadron. Lombardo just finished explaining the incident to Nick.

“Good man, Captain. Where you from by the way?”

“Maginot System. On the Terran-Kilrathi Border, sir,” Captain Lombardo answered.

“Yer Kilrathi, aren’t ya?” Nick asked without a hint of emotion in his voice, but his eyes glinted with a mirth that the Captain did not see. “Yep, I can notice it. Just a flea bitten furball sack of shit.”

“No, sir, I am Terran. A Confed. A human.” Lombardo motioned at himself and pointed out his 100% human features, “I have legs, arms, skin, eyes, dick, just like a human. Cause I am one.”

“What you say, Lombardo? You said that dad was a Kilrathi and he stiffed a female human whore, Lombardo? It’s no crime to be Kilrathi, Captain. There is no reason to be ashamed from it.”

“I beg the CO’s pardon, but I swear that I’m 100% human,” Captain Lombardo protested.

Nick’s voice then turned serious, “Look Captain.” He started with his voice being lower, the gleam disappearing from his eyes, fading into stone and hardness, “If I want you to think you are Kilrathi, then you are going to be Kilrathi. If I want you to pray to Sivar and eat raw meat and drink water out of toilets then you’ll do it. I like the men under my chain of command to jump at everything I say, especially my Flight Captain.”

“Sir,” Lombardo said, “I’m proud of being a human.”

“You can learn to be proud of being Kilrathi just as easy. That’ll be all, Captain.” Nick then stood up to leave for another table.

“Yes, sir,” the Captain said with a salute.

As he turned to leave, Nick called at him, “Yo, Lombardo. You said that you from Maginot?” The captain stopped and with putting his drink on the floor, and coming to stiff attention, said, “Yes, sir.”

“I heard that it’s now one hell of a Confed stronghold now. Since you’re from there, I’ll like you to point out some of the finer details of that system next time we’re there. I’ll like to go sightseeing.”

“You will, sir,” Chuck Lombardo said, smiling. “You will.”

First Lieutenant Mark Henderson was another guy who doesn’t quit, Nick mentally noted as he looked over at his direction. His record said he was an ex-Marine. Sure didn’t look like it. Nick noted that he was known as Jock, as he was built in the thin and wiry type that powerhorse jockeys were framed. Kinda small and frail looking though.

Nick went and introduced himself as his CO, Henderson immediately got up and saluted, “First Lieutenant Mark Henderson, sir.” His voice was high pitched and squeaky; Nick thought that he might have made one hell of a soap opera singer.

(This guy’s a fucking Terran Confederation Marine?)

Nick motioned him down as he sat down himself, “I got a couple of questions to ask you Lieutenant. The first is: how the hell did you make it out of Marine boot camp with a voice like that? The DI’s must have given you hell.”

“They did, sir. When I graduated with my platoon, the Gunny in charge told me he never heard a voice like mine before in boot camp.”

“I thought your wife might be a ventriloquist hiding behind the wall.” Henderson’s record had shown that he had married a model. The model was taller then he was.

“No, sir. This is my voice.”

Nick nodded. “Another question Lieutenant. How tall are you?”

“Five feet four inches Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Bullshit Lieutenant, a man 5'4" would look like a giant next to you.”

“I’m small boned, sir.”

“You must have bones of a buzz canary man.” Nick then leaned his voice over, “Let me tell you my theory of small men Lieutenant, and tell if I am right or wrong.” Nick then cleared his throat, ”Give me a guy less then five feet six, Hendersen, and I’ll guarantee that he’s a real bastard 95% of the time. It has been my experience that short men get a chip on their shoulder as big as a megacarrier. They’re pissed off at life and God and everyone else just because they are midgets.”

Nick continued on, “They come into the Fleet, or in your case, both the Marine Corps and the Space Force, because they can be proud and tough once in their lives. They like to strut around in their uniforms, flashing their wings, and pretending that their dicks are as long as anyone elses. I’m a blunt man Henderson, and I’ll tell you that I’ll always keep an eye out for the little guys because I know he’s down there waiting for the chance to sneak in unnoticed and cut my balls off.” Nick then took a breather and then asked, “What do you think of my theory?”

Henderson puckered his lips and narrowed his eyes for a moment. He did not answer immediately. Nick could tell that he was pondering the theory seriously.

“In my case,” the Lieutenant began, “Your theory is generally correct. During my childhood, I was sort of a bookworm. Good in academics, horrible in sports, shy demeanor, high-pitched voice, very very bad luck with girls. I was laughed at and picked on by virtually everybody. My parents wanted him to attend studies in the famous university in the Oxford System and get a PhD (author’s note: which we all know means Piled Higher and Deeper). Then during high school graduation, I announced to everybody that I was going to enlist in the Marine Corps. I was always too small to excel in sports and my voice too high pitched to be taken seriously. I came into the Corps to prove to myself that I can take anything they dish out.”

Henderson continued, “They didn’t believe me. From my classmates, my peers, to the Gunnery Sergeant recruiter, and to the Drill Instructors that make boot camp such a fun and enjoyable experience, everyone had to hold back the urge to laugh. I was only five feet two and just made the bare weight requirement of a hundred and twenty pounds. A couple of DIs made bets that I would wash out in the first day or so. My peers looked at him with scorn, thinking that I couldn’t do it. That I couldn’t hack it.”

Henderson then talked about boot camp. Twelve weeks went by. Forty percent of the original recruits (some of them vaunted hyperball jocks and power lifters) were gone from boot camp, and Mark was still small. Still thin. Still quiet. But still there. Over the course he became wiry and tough. He found himself overcoming every obstacle that was flung his way. No matter how bad he got his ass kicked by the PT and the hazing, he always went back for more. His Drill Instructors found out that Mark was something of a damn tar baby: they simply couldn’t get rid of him. Mark’s work paid off as well, during the graduation ceremony to boot camp, Mark was given an instant promotion to PFC (Private First Class) while everyone was still amazed and impressed that he made it through.

It was because, underneath Henderson’s frame, beat the heart of a warrior.

“I went into infantry, where my Sergeant and my Lieutenants noted my intellect.” Henderson was a tactical genius in combat, and he soon rose up the ranks eventually becoming a Sergeant and a squad leader. “When it comes to infantry combat sir, the slim trim little guys had a better edge in combat then the big muscular hyperball jocks.” Mark had seen combat and had been credited with confirmed kills of quite a few Kilrathi. When he was awarded the Bronze Star for heroic actions, “A Space Force Officer gave me the chance for a college degree and a chance to go to OCS to pursue a career as a fighter pilot.”

Four years later after college (he did go to Oxford by the way) and then an easy time through OCS, he got commissioned and became a pilot. Through sheer will and ability, he experienced some fighter combat and was eventually assigned to fly Confed’s best aerospace fighter.

Nick smiled and said, “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. My XO told me that you are one of the best young Lieutenants in the squadron. I didn’t know who you were Henderson, and if I had to take a pick, you would have been my last choice.”

“Yes sir,” the Lieutenant replied, “I understand that and that’s what makes me even more determined to be the best.”

Nick then replied harshly, “Yer gonna have to wait a while before you become the best, Lieutenant.”

“Pardon me sir?”

“You’re the second best pilot in the squadron, Henderson. You are talking to the best.” Nick pointed to himself. “Me. M-E.”

“No sir,” Lieutenant Henderson replied, “I am still the best.”

“Did you hear what I said Henderson? I said I was the best.”

“Lieutenant Colonel, you are the second best,” Henderson pressed on.

Nick laughed, “Haha! You cocky squealy voiced little bastard. You and me are gonna get along fine. I like someone that don’t take any shit. Of course, we’re gonna have to fly together one day, so I can see how good you are.”

“Be glad to sir. I’ve heard you are good.”

“That is affirmative, Lieutenant. We’ll go up later on next week to see if you are as good with a Vampire as you are with your mouth.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it, sir,” the Lieutenant said.

Still smiling, Nick said, “I enjoyed talking to you Henderson. I like your attitude. It’s a good attitude. It’s a real good attitude to find in such a measly body.” He then stood up, “See you later.”

“See you later sir.”

Nick moved on and then noted Second Lieutenant Timothy Enders, AKA Baby Timmy, was the newest tyke and the only 2LT in the squadron. A muscular burly tyke, but still a tyke nonetheless. Nick realized that his friend Colonel Hank Morse specifically requested him to be transferred into the squadron. Nick didn’t know why he did that until he took out what was up. Nick decided to walk over to his table as what Jake told of him went through his mind.

Baby Timmy’s fitness reports looked like shit. During his Academy years and his first few months into active service his superior officers had described Baby Timmy as ‘insubordinate’, ‘violent’, ‘stubborn’, ‘uncontrollable’, ‘unsuitable to be an officer’, ‘psychologically unfit’, ‘overly aggressive’ on his fitreps. They were afraid that Baby Timmy was too aggressive. They were afraid that he might actually kill something one day (oh my god!). And that put his military career in jeapordy.

That meant that sooner or later the Space Force bureaucrats would have their own way and boot young Baby Timmy out of the Fleet. And getting booted out with a dishonorable discharge would mean that it will be very very hard to find a civilian job. And that wasn’t looking really good for Baby Timmy’s future. So that was why Colonel Morse assigned BT to Nick’s squadron; he needed some place to dump the kid so the system would forget about him. And in the meantime Nick would take good care of him. Nick thought of Baby Timmy’s record more.

The kid was an Academy grad, but he also graduated dead last in his class. He majored in aeronautical engineering, a considerably much more rigorous academic cirriculum then the easy history and sociology and political science his comrades chose and breezed through. His low standing gave him a black mark next to his name, which meant he was unofficially classified as LTBS (the term means ‘Lower then Bug Shit’ of course) by the pucker-sphinctered, pus-nuts, bean-counting, numb-nutted, ass-kissing bureaucrats who run the Terran Confederation Bureau of Personnel these days. And run it they do: right into the fucking ground.

But to Nick, it showed that he had determination and guts to stick it to the very end, which he did. Nick doesn’t want the gazelles that do everything perfectly and effortlessly, he wants the grunts. He wants the people who would toughen it out, sure they would bitch and moan and hated everything, but they did it. Combat experience showed him that the ones who stick it in will be the ones victorious in battle. It will be the person that works the hardest to get where he is that one will depend in combat.

But now, the Confed bureaucrats don’t give a damn about people who don’t quit. They want people who can get administrative shit done. It sucks but it is a tradition of military peacetime service dating all the way back to First Century Terra unfortunately. Baby Timmy was declared lower then bug shit and the bureaucrats were going to kick this ‘scum’ out. But as the old saying goes, one officer’s scum is another officer’s jewel, which is why Baby Timmy was assigned in Nick’s squadron.

Nick took a look at Baby Timmy’s young round naive baby face and laughed. The kid was green, but there was a little part of him that showed Nick that the kid was a tough scrapper if needed. He had the same type of warrior spirit that Mark Henderson has. “So what makes you think you can cut it junior?” Nick could see Baby Timmy’s face as he said it. He could see the frustration on his face, but the way that he stood up against it told Nick that he was toughing up against it.

“I know I can sir,” Baby Timmy finally said.

“I’d be frank with you Enders. You look like a flake to me.”

Enders was offended, “You seen my record sir?”

“Yeah, and it says you act like a flake too. You think got the balls for this junior?”

“Of course sir.”

Nick laughed once more, “Look kid, you are a tyke. A cherry. You are going to be our number one cannon fodder here. If we see a pack of bugs out there, we’re going to send you in to draw fire. If the bugs fire torpedoes at our warships, we’re putting you right in their way to block their path. If we see a black hole out there, we’re gonna send you into it just to see if there are any bugs lurking in it.” Nick then gave a little gleam and a madman’s smile, “So you still up for it junior?”

Baby Timmy’s face was of utter determination, “Ah hell Colonel, count me in. I have always dreamed of being a fighter pilot and now that I am one, I wanna be the fucking best there is. Even if that means getting killed in your outfit. I’ll rather do that then spend some time in some pusnuts patrol squadron playing around with my thumb up my ass.”

Of course Nick wanted him in his squadron, who wouldn’t?

After spending some more time talking to his men, Nick spent the rest of the night talking with Jake about the new guys. The two sat on stools near the bar, drinking some Bombay Sapphire gin. Nick asked Jake, who was recently in active service longer then he was, “So how are the new guys doing?”

Jake thought about it, “They are doing good. Intelligence is superb. Physical fitness was fine, much higher then expected. It’s probaly all the ex-Marines that are in here, forces everyone to maintain at least a par with them. They are what I expected of them, and then much more.” It was Nick’s turn to smile. It was an unofficial rule among any squadron, especially his, that all the people in it deemed himself in competition with everybody else.

Nick asked, “Out of the new guys, who’s the craziest?”

“Captain Luke Gunter. That guy is just fucking nuts. Gung ho. 100% absolute genuine psycho. That’s why he’s with us.” He’s an ex-enlisted Marine like Henderson, Foxworth, and Brown.” Nick nodded his consent and then looked over at Gunter, which was now pretty much blasted, going off in tangents. He also noted that someone in the squadron had decided to be very creative, for now Gunter’s shirt now bore a little sticker that said, “Hello, My Name Is: DRUNK”. Cute, very cute, Nick thought.

“The toughest?”

“Weber. The guy isn’t exactly human man. I heard stories about him, and they be true.” Nick then took a look at Weber, who seemed to be staring at a wall doing nothing. He also noticed that people were keeping a distance away from him. No wonder some people felt uncomfortable around him, he scared them witih his demeanor. It doesn’t matter Nick any concern, as long as Weber can fly and shoot and kill, he was good in Nick’s book. After that Nick had to ask Jake some questions, “How many ships are in our battlegroup?”

Jake merely pointed a finger towards a window in response. Nick went over and took a look. Outside the window he saw a pair of shiny new cruisers docked on another side of the base, taking in supplies. From the look of them (not to mention their huge triple turrets), they were heavy cruisers. Nick recognized them as the new Plunkett-class that ConFleet has been churning out. Supposed to give an all-new definition on the term “naval gunfire support”.

“Shiny new cruisers. Got commissioned the same time Mistral Sea did around Jupiter. We’re hooking up with four destroyers and a pair of corvettes for escorts.” Nick nodded. “To replace the losses?”

“Yeah.”

It was standard operation procedure to have at least a pair of cruisers and at least six other escort ships to screen each fleet carrier. It was this force that comprosed the main objective of a carrier group: power projection. Nick disgruntledly recalled last year, when Invincible only had about half the standard complement as escort. That was because Invincible was deployed in Gemini Sector, where warships came in scarce quantity. And also because there was virtually no combat in Gemini.

“Lieutenant Colonel Huynh!” Two young pilots, both of them First Lieutenants, from one of the Tigershark outfits came over to where Nick stood with his soda. “Join us for a few minutes, won’t you? We’re drinking shooters. Have one with us.”

Jenn was already standing by the table. Nick allowed him to be persuaded.

A trayful of shotglasses filled with apple brandy sat on the bar counter. As Nick watched, one of the young fools reached over and set the liquor in one of the glasses on fire with his lighter. “Okay Colonel, show us how it’s done!”

Nick looked at Jenn, who was studying him with a raised eyebrow.

He sat down on the counter, and one of the young pukes placed a glass in front of him. There was a nice blue flame on the glass now.

It had been a while since he did this... wait... only a week or so. Was it Absintine, that he was so blind drunk that he passed out while waiting for the shuttle? Or was it during McAulliffe, when he had to drink the bars dry to commemorate the pilots that died under his command? Ah, but during the era of hard piece, nobody got drunk anymore. Politically correct. Then the Aliens came, and somehow, the tradition of having pilots roam the bars like wildmen have begun to arise again like it did during the Kilrathi War. Aviators needed a place to vent their frustrations, after flying missions and getting shot at and the possibility that one might not come back. Especially during a time in which pilots began dropping like flies.

Nick steadied himself, held the shotglass to his mouth, took a deep breath, and poured the burning liquor down his throat. It burned all the way down. Some of the liquor trickled his lips still on flame but Nick’s tongue licked it up. And when he put the shotglass down, there was still a hint of flame coming from the bottom.

“Am I burning?” he asked himself. He didn’t think so. He wiped his mouth with his arm and started to stare at the two young jocks that egged him on. Them, and other junior officers who were watching, gazed with pure astonishment.

“Jesus sir!”, one of the Lieutenants spoke up,”We always blow the fire out before we drink it!”

Nick didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You goddamn pussies”, he said as he motioned the young pilot to get him another glass.

Two hours later
Nick’s Quarters

“Your first night on the carrier, and you’re drunk!”

Jennifer’s voice pierced right into Nick’s buzz. He felt like he had been hit by a large hovertank, a nice 60-ton one with the dual plasma turrets, at least. He turned in the bathroom door in his stateroom and looked carefully at his lifelong friend. He squinted to make his eyes focus better, but they kept getting out of focus. There were two Jennifers, he saw. Both of them looked very pissed.

“I am not drunk! A bit tipsy, I will grant you that. But not drunk.” He swelled his chest and tried to look sober (failing miserably). “Those stupid puppies, thinking they could drink an old dinosaur like me under the table!” Nick snorted at that as he began to mock the young Lieutenant, “’Jesus sir! We always blow the fire out before we drink.’ Ha, ha... and... ha!”

Jenn was seething, “Oh, you... “

“Excuse me,” Nick held up a finger, “Just a minute or two my pretty, and we will continue this discussion until you have said everything that needs to be said. There is undoubtfully a lot of it and I am sure it will take a while. Just one tiny minute.” He closed the bathroom door and began vomiting into the toilet. It took quite a number of heaves. Then he swabbed his forehad with a wet washcloth.

He felt better. He started at himself in the mirror. “You look like hell, you damn fool.”

He took a long drink of water, swabbed his face with a towel, opened the door, and said, “Okay, you were saying?”

She wasn’t there. And the room was empty.

It didn’t matter, Nick thought as he stumbled into his bed. He fell asleep the moment he touched the ground.

Death Angel Squadron Ready Room
0900 Hours

The next morning, after a chewing out by Jenn and a serious apology, Nick got his four Majors to appear in his “office”, which was right now nothing more then a room with an empty table on it. Nick was in a serious mood now, and looked much different and refreshed then he did last night at the bar. He had taken a shower and cleant himself up. He had shaved his face and groomed his hair. He was in a cleaned and pressed uniform. He was all business today.

The command was passed to him once more again. Commander of the Fighting 46th, the elite Death Angel Squadron. And it was his again, the fulfillment of an old and troubled dream. During his year away from the Fleet he had suffered a hollowness of spirit that had the unmistakenable dimension of an anticlimax. He had wanted a chance to lead some of the Fleet’s merciless killers again for so long, scratched his way along the belly of the beast for so many years, fighting off reprimands, threathens of court martial, and the rumors that he was too unstable, too volatile to lead a squadron, and that the being seemed less real then the struggle and the long acsent to get there.

He was, at that very moment, behind this desk, the commander of the Death Angels once again, and by some fraudulence of time, all the sweetness had gone out of it, the honey of triumph left his lips dry and his greatest moment with only a memory of what it would taste like to sustain him.

Then he thought, “I’m a pilot, not a fucking philosopher.”

“You’re my executive officer,” Nick said to Major Jake Wintersteen. “Mankind Confederation, you got operations,” he said to Major Johann Weber, who scowled. “Jake, what’s the sitrep right now?”

“Our problem is training. We were told it would be three more weeks till we deployed. Then right afterwards we’re told to get our butts in operation. I asked Butler bout it, said that he’ll try to give as much time as possible but at most till action we got about a week. Jackass.”

Nick nodded, “One week. It’s nowhere near enough. We don’t have enough time for traning; we’re gonna have to go into combat knowing what we know now.”

Major Jennifer Chen pointed out,”The majority of the pilots are all combat veterans who have survived Hell and back Nick, they should know how to work. If they didn’t then they won’t be here.”

Jake added this part, “Yeah Jenn, the Cynium veterans are no problem, they know what they are doing. So are the other combat vets. But the newbies like Henderson and Enders... “

Major Foxworth immediately replied “Henderson can handle it sir, he’s a Marine.”

Jake responded in turn, “Thank you for sharing that damn jarhead asshole.” Then he got serious, “For Enders, well... “

Jenn replied, “What we can make him do is think about combat, shake off the peacetime complencency, key him up, get him sharp.”

“But hey Jenn, this guy’s got a warrior spirit. Hell, he finished dead last in his class.” Jake said, “He’s like a Rolex synthawatch, he’ll take a licking and still keep kicking. Butt.” Jake then cleared his throat, “The point is, he has potential and I think he’ll pull through.”

Nick acknowledged, “Yeah, but the question is if he can cut the mustard now. If worse comes to worth we’ll just not take him out for the time being.” He then noticed that Major Weber hadn’t said anything during the entire conversation, “Yo, Mankind Confederation, what you think about the entire situation?”

Major Weber’s response was crisp, military, to the point, and of course, expressionless. “I agree with you. A couple of days isn’t enough time. A month maybe, a week is cutting it.” Nick nodded.

“Jake, can we let Kugler or Chapin’s boys take care of it for the time being? We know they cut their own teeth at Cynium.” Nick asked. Jake shook his head.

“No can do pal. There’s been a lot of debate back at High Command, some of the staff were convinced that recommissioning the Death Angels was a liability. They tolerated us during the Second War, but not peacetime. They thought we were setting a bad example. When the bugs came in the Alien Invasion they thought that any threat, the rest of the ConFleet squadrons can handle it. That didn’t work, squadron after squadron ended up getting blasted into the Next Dimension.”

Jake continued, “McCormick cut his teeth to get us back and lobbied and stepped on a lot of toes until he got approval. But that time the conflict was rising down. Then again, some of the people decided that it was over, to not get us back. Then the lasted intel reports came in and...”

“Well, Duke ordered us back into service. Ordered the others who hated us to do so. But he also said, he wanted results. There isn’t any worth getting us back if we don’t do shit,” Jake then concluded, “So to put it bluntly. We were given a chance to prove ourselves and we gotta live up to it.” Nick nodded.

“Besides, Colonel,” Joe Foxworth said, “I think that everyone in this squadron has trained to combat one way or the other. If we put them in the simulator, concentrate on the systems, refresh on tactics, and talk about what they can expect, they’ll be about 80% ready. The first bug they see, they’ll get pumped the rest of the way.”

“No problem. But I’ll have to get transitioned to this plane,” Nick said, “I never flew an F-109.”

“Don’t worry Nick,” Jenn said, “The Vampire’s controls are nearly as identical as an Excalibur’s. It’s a little bit easier to handle. The electronics package is generations ahead of the old Excalibur, but it is easy to learn. Just a little different here and there. The airframe is very straightforward; the one on the Excalibur was complicated and expensive to maintain. You’ll pick it up pretty fast.”

“Got it, “ Joe Foxworth said, “Oh, Lieutenant Colonel, the CAG relayed a message for you to contact him.” Nick nodded, and with a shooing motion, kicked his Majors out of his office. He then went on the communicator laying next to the wall and called up the CAG. Butler’s ugly face appeared on the screen instantaneously.

“Lieutenant Colonel... we got a problem here and I think you can solve it... “

The reporter’s name was Seymour Stephenson. He was the TNN reporter attached to the battlegroup and is doing a story on the readiness of the Confed Fleet after the First Invasion. He was there only because the Admiral was pressured by the Senate, and like a good noncomfrontational man, he had relented. And given the free will to ask anything he wanted, the plump reporter went and butted his head in on every occurance that was happening on the ship. And whenever someone refused to answer any of his questions, he would wave a “the Senate let me do this, so ha!” note around the person’s face.

The other senior officers had objected to the reporter with scorn and would like nothing other then circling the nosy reporter from one of the airlocks. But under orders to do anything he wanted, it was decided that they introduced Stephenson to a certain junkyard dog. But he was a liability, he could get his hands on classified material on up-and-coming operations and then air it. And everyone knows how successful operations are when everyone in the frigging galaxy knows what/where/how it is going to take place.

The holovision lights were on as the reporter began his interview, “Lieutenant Colonel Huynh, I understand you are the commander of the 46th Fighter Squadron, otherwise known as the Death Angels. Your squadron is credited with one of the highest kill ratios in the entire Fleet and was just recommissioned recently. Is that correct?”

Nick nodded. Once.

Stephenson let the insult go over his head as he continued,“If may I ask, why you?”

Because I do what I’m best at: killing. He didn’t say that, of course. “Because they asked me to.”

“Why?” Stephenson pressed the issue.

“Why not?” Nick didn’t feel like talking. Stephenson then coughed and then went to another question.

“How many pilots on your squadron?”

“Sixteen including me.”

“You know when the shooting is going to start?”

“Soon.”

“You are not very talkative, are you Lieutenant Colonel?”

“That wasn’t one of the qualifications for the job.”

“How much is Confed paying you?”

“You’ll have to ask the guy who writes my paycheck for that.”

“What do you hope to accomplish in this campaign?”

“Kill bugs.”

Mr. Stephenson made a sign with the cameraman, and the red light on the camera went out, “You are being very uncooperative Lieutenant Colonel.”

Nick shrugged. “I’m here only because the CAG told me to make myself available. I am available. What else is there to ask?”

“I asked to shoot these interviews with a F-109A Vampire in the background. You refused. Why is that?” Stephenson motioned with his hands towards one of the Vampires lying about half a hanger’s length away, “It would have been a great set. And it would have a great impact on this interview when it airs.”

If it airs pal. Nick shrugged again. “Those aren’t my fighters.”

“But you fly them.”

“But I don’t own them. I mean, if I left the Fleet right now, then I couldn’t exactly take one of those fighters with me and go joyriding.” Nick shrugged again. Stephenson then sighed and then came up with another question.

“We asked to talk to the Taiwanese pilot. Which one is he?” Stephenson glanced on his list.

Nick made a face. “The Taiwanese pilot. That is really derogatory and racist. You know, that gives a good public image on you as a reporter. I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” Seymour pretended not to hear that and still like always, still kept on pressing the issue.

“What’s his name?”

“It’s a she.”

“Why a she?”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t you arrange for it? For political correctness? Or some other agenda?”

“I don’t know. It just happened. Shoot me.”

Stephenson scowled, “Couldn’t you say something about the Border Worlds? Perhaps you had a relative there. Or grew up there. Or fought alongside them during a battle? Something that would be about aiding in their fight for survival, something like that?”

Nick had enough and said it as such, “Go to hell.” And then he took off his mike and got out of the hot seat.

One of the pilots the reporter was most interested in interviewing was Adam Thompson, whose acquired personnel file revealed that his mother was from the Border Worlds. But Adam was having none of it. He was nowhere to be found. Nick asked his XO Jake Wintersteen where he was, and was told, “Thompson said something about an three-some tonight. I’m to say that to this reporter if he asks.”

For the first time that day, a slight smile went on Nick’s face. “Okay.”

Slayer tried to play it straight. He was here to defend the civilized universe, doing his duty, fighting for victims of oppression, defending a Confed ally, making space a safer place not only for his wife and kid, but for every living human. After 15 minutes, he looked relieved as he got out of the chair.

Most of the other pilots gave Stephenson more of the same, until he got to Zack Hall. When asked why he was here, he said, “The fighter pilot ethos as a compelling purity, a rare strain of selflessness and self-sacrafice that too often we lost sight of in modern life. I find it...” he searched for the words, “... almost religious. Don’t you?” He looked straight at Seymour Stephenson.

Stephenson made a noise.

Hall continued, “I want to see how I will face a competent, courageous, dedicated alien warrior who seeks to kill me. Will I have enough courage? Will I be bold? Will I fight with honor and die with honor if that is required? These are serious questions that bedevil many people in this perverted age. I’m sure you’ve thought about these things and pondered them in length. Haven’t you?”

Stephenson sat staring, his mouth open. Hall waited politely. “I see.” Stephenson managed.

“I’m delighted that you do,” he told Stephenson warmly. “All of the alien pilots.” He flipped a finger, “are servants. Just mere drones of the bee hive. Out to do the willing of their master and think nothing of themselves. They have no ideas, no insight, no intellectual life. I am not like that. I explore the inner man. Or in this case, the inner fellow galactic organism.”

When Hall went over to the CO after his interview, he asked, still deadly serious, “How did I do?”

Nick replied, “Fine, you dirty bastard. You are now the unit public affairs officer.”

Captain Luke Gunter gave a performance that was the equal of Zack’s. Perhaps even better. When asked why he was here, he told the reporter, “I like to kill things.”

“How you think you will feel, killing a fellow creature?”

“It’ll be glorious.” Luke gave the reporter a wolfish grin. “I can’t wait. I’ll blow those lobster shelled cockroaches to kingdom come so goddamn fast they’ll never know what hit them. Just you watch.” Stunned, Stephenson recovered quickly.

“How do you know that you won’t be the one who falls?”

“Oh, it ain’t gonna be me man. I’m too good for these bugs. I’m one of the best in the business. The F-109 is good iron. I can fly that fucking space fighter. I’m gonna go through those goddamn bugs like shit through an asshole. Can’t stand bugs. I guess it’s personal with me, something that happened during childhood involving some diablo-ants and a sweaty jockstrap. But I won’t let that interfere with my emotions. I’m gonna stay cool and kill those insect sons of bitches.”

Stephenson didn’t know what to say.

Luke smiled at the camera, unhooked his mike, got out and walked out, right by Jennifer Chen.

Jenn sat down on the interview chair and smiled sweetly as one of the technicians hooked up her mike.

“Ms. Chen,” Stephenson began, forgetting to smile like any good reporter would.

“Major Chen, please. That is my rank in the Terran Confederation Space Force. I am very proud of it.” She managed to say it with just the faintest hint of a Southern accent. Watching from behind a holocamera, Nick covered his face with his hands.

“Major Chen,” Stephenson, smiling brittlely.

“All of my life, I have loved things from the Border Worlds. Curelean Fire wine, bent-on-taking-over-the-universe megacorporations, ‘Confed is evil’ propaganda, space submarines, badass military officers having sex with each other...” Jenn’s recall of things Border World failed her here. She waved airly and toned on.

“I am so thrilled to have this opportunity to actually go to the Border Worlds, to succor her people in their hour of need, to serve this small but magnificent nation in my own small way, and perhaps, to make a contribution to the betterment of the downtrodden proleteriat. And even, dare I say it, the bourgeoise?”

It was about here that Stephenson just passed his breaking point. His face was totally red and you could swear you could see steam coming out of his ears. “Are all of you people assholes?”, he snarled and with his right hand threw his microphone to the floor. The microphone shattered around the ground. Right in front of the holocamera.

Busted.

“Unfortunately sir, I believe so,” replied Major Chen. She looked straight at the camera and flashed her absolute best smile.

Needless to say, the interview didn’t air.

FINIS