Ensign Jarran Spokane was bored, bored, bored. He was on stag for a routine patrol due to start in seventeen minutes. Out of sheer boredom, he was already suited up and waiting in the corridor outside the briefing room. He had been through Life Support already, and had his helmet in his hands. He turned it over and rolled it around, inspecting every inch. His callsign was printed across the forehead, and there were decals and stickers plastered on the back and sides. He chuckled as he read the name on the brow for the umpteenth time. Squatting Dog. The lads called him ‘Dog’ for short, or on rare occasions ‘Dingo’ to honour his Australian heritage.
On his third ever patrol, the formation had bumped into a Socialist patrol of equal numbers; not an uncommon occurance out here. One of the CNF fighters had been lost, but the pilot had ejected just in time and survived, drifting through space until rescued. When the patrol group returned to Forward Operating Station Kolkata, Ens. Spokane had been reluctant to climb backwards down the ladder from the cockpit: the back of his flight suit was more than a little damp, and on the inside was even worse. In his defence, a shipment of tainted chicken had come through the mess a few days before and a lot of personnel had been afflicted with the dreaded Squirts, including Spokane, but the comic timing of his little accident was too perfect to let slide. As a newbie pilot at the time, he was due for a callsign, as centuries of tradition demanded it. He didn’t mind the humourous nickname at all, and in fact had become quite adept at telling the story as comically bluntly as possible when asked about it. He had once even caused a Marine Major to suffer a brief fit of tearful laughter.
Spokane was soon joined by the three other pilots from his patrol roster. Lieutenant Emily ‘Amazon’ Azevedo was the patrol leader, an excruciatingly good-looking New Aoteoroan woman and an outstanding Naval officer. Unlike some squadron leaders, she honestly gave a damn about her fliers, even to the point of being like a big sister to some of the younger and greener pilots. She was a popular member of the fighter wing. Regulations being what they are, many men wanted her but none could have her. She was an absolute professional, too, and adhered strictly to the rules. Despite this, a few folks working aboard FOS Kolkata had noticed that Lt. Azevedo was on very good terms with the charismatic and friendly Spokane.
“Heya, Dog,” she smiled. “How’s it?”
“Pretty good, LT. You?”
She shrugged. “Ready to fly.”
Within a half hour, they were indeed flying. The four F/A-330G ‘Super Shrike’ multi-role fighters were brought in pairs to the outside of the station by cavernous elevators that depressurized as they rose. The Shrikes locked into deck catapults on the outer surface of the station as they lit their engines and loosened their brakes.
Launch Control came online with a hiss of background noise. “All Viper callsigns, standby for launch… Three… Two… One… Launching.”
Spokane’s head was slammed backward into his seat as the catapult slung him along three hundred metres of tar-coated steel plate in no more than two seconds; the Shrike was almost weightless out here. The nosewheel shot free from the catapult, and as the two Shrikes were hurled off the edge of the ramp he was finally able to raise his hands enough to put them on the controls. He glanced across to his left at Viper 2, Lt. Jimmy ‘Applesauce’ Crowe, a jocular Canadian who was the patrol’s second-in-command. Applesauce saw him look, and waved as they peeled away from each other. They rolled out into an orbit of the station, and shortly Vipers 1 and 4 appeared below them. The patrol formed up neatly into a lopsided ‘flying V’ with Viper 1 at the pointy end.
“Viper Team, Viper One, six zero seconds break right Two Two Four, acknowledge, over.”
“Viper One, Viper Two, six zero seconds break right Two Two Four, wilco, over.”
Spokane glanced at his radio controls, seeing that his mike was set to voice-activation. “Viper One, Viper Three, six zero seconds break right Two Two Four, wilco, over.”
“Viper One, Viper Four, six zero seconds break right Two Two Four, wilco, over,” came the voice of Ensign Mattias ‘Spud’ Fedorov, a Ukrainian pilot only recently posted to White Rim. His English was flawless, thanks to a private school education on New Brittania, and his callsign had been bestowed on him after a mid-corridor collision—not his fault—with a cart of potatoes destined for the galley. Both pilot and potatoes had gone spilling along the corridor in what can only be described as an ‘explosive’ manner. He had, of course, copped a beasting from the Wing Commander for it, but later admitted that it was definitely worth the earful.
There was a long silence after the first check-in, then Amazon was back on the air. “Viper Team, Viper One, breaking right in five… four… three… two… one… Break, Break, Break, over.”
As she gave the call to break, the four fighters rolled neatly onto their starboard sides and cranked sharply through a right-hand turn that swung them away from the station. They aligned onto Station Bearing 224 and continued on in formation. Spokane had a good feeling about this patrol. Something interesting was going to happen.
Life on the Fringes 