over the tarmac back to
the base, wondered if Xris knew his partner was gone yet, what he was doing
about it. Jamil was tense, prepared for action. It was unlikely that Xris would
be putting together some sort of rescue attempt, but Jamil had to be alert and
ready to react if that happened.
It didn’t.
The pilot
indicated that all was ready. She climbed up the ladder and took her place in
the cockpit.
The two senior
officers boarded the bomber by climbing a ladder in the open bomb bay, leading
into the crew area. They strapped themselves into the communicator’s and the
bombardier’s chairs. The pilot wound up the engines. To anyone accustomed to
flying in the relative comfort of fighter spaceplanes, the engine noise inside
the larger and heavier bomber was deafening. Jamil grimaced, wondered how any
living being could take this. A hand touched his arm. VanDerGard pointed to a
cord with a jack on one end which hung from Jamil’s helmet to a socket in the
bulkhead.
Jamil plugged in
the jack, and all was blessedly quiet. The helmet’s noise filters completely
removed the engine whine and the creaks and strains of the fuselage. He looked
outside the small porthole. A storm was moving in over the desert; lightning
shot through the clouds that were building fast in the heat.
Jamil bid Xris a
silent and rueful good-bye, wished them both luck, and prepared for takeoff. He
was seated in the communicator’s chair. A voice came over his helmet.
“Navy Three Five
Niner Zircon, you are cleared for priority launch on runway Two Niner. All
traffic is cleared of your launch and egress vectors. Have a good flight.
Pandor Tower out.”
The pilot wasted
no time. The spaceplane—clumsy and awkward on the ground, graced with a deadly
beauty in space—lurched forward, taxied to the runway.
The takeoff and
flight were, in Navy terms, uneventful, despite the fact that lightning struck
the fuselage of the spaceplane at least three times that Jamil counted. He
expected all sorts of dire consequences, from the engines blowing up to the
electrical systems going haywire, but nothing happened. The pilot didn’t seem
bothered by the strikes. VanDerGard apparently hadn’t even noticed. Jamil quit
looking out the viewscreen. Gritting his teeth, sweating and nervous, clutching
the arms of the seat, he faced grimly forward. He detested space flight. This
was exactly the reason why he’d joined the Army. Ninety percent of the time,
your feet were on solid ground.
Once into space,
the pilot kicked in the radiation drive and exited the Pandoran solar system.
Jamil looked out the viewscreen again. A tiny speck of light, no brighter than
the stars around it, began to grow larger. Jamil stared at it and, forgetting
where he was and under what circumstances, he whistled.
“Never seen a
command cruiser before, sir?” VanDerGard asked.
“Not for a very
long time,” Jamil answered truthfully. “And they never looked like that! My
god, but she’s huge.”
“The King James
II is one of the new Septimus Severus Class command cruisers,” VanDerGard
said with obvious pride. “She was only commissioned four months ago. The king
and queen both attended the launching ceremonies.”
The ship was
larger in area than many cities, held more people. Its blue-gray durasteel hull
shone in the reflected light of Pandor’s distant sun. Lights from hundreds of
portholes sparkled on its surface. Its hull was smooth, sleek, unmarred by
antennae, guns, torpedo tubes, lascannons or any other weapon mounts.
But they were
there. Harry—who kept up on all the Navy’s new designs—had gone on for days
about how all the weapons and other instruments had been built into the hull.
When the ship went into action, she must be an awesome sight. Jamil imagined
gunports sliding open, torpedo launch mounts lifting into place. He was so
interested, he almost forgot that he was likely to see more of this ship than
he wanted.
Like the brig.
VanDerGard was
conferring
the base, wondered if Xris knew his partner was gone yet, what he was doing
about it. Jamil was tense, prepared for action. It was unlikely that Xris would
be putting together some sort of rescue attempt, but Jamil had to be alert and
ready to react if that happened.
It didn’t.
The pilot
indicated that all was ready. She climbed up the ladder and took her place in
the cockpit.
The two senior
officers boarded the bomber by climbing a ladder in the open bomb bay, leading
into the crew area. They strapped themselves into the communicator’s and the
bombardier’s chairs. The pilot wound up the engines. To anyone accustomed to
flying in the relative comfort of fighter spaceplanes, the engine noise inside
the larger and heavier bomber was deafening. Jamil grimaced, wondered how any
living being could take this. A hand touched his arm. VanDerGard pointed to a
cord with a jack on one end which hung from Jamil’s helmet to a socket in the
bulkhead.
Jamil plugged in
the jack, and all was blessedly quiet. The helmet’s noise filters completely
removed the engine whine and the creaks and strains of the fuselage. He looked
outside the small porthole. A storm was moving in over the desert; lightning
shot through the clouds that were building fast in the heat.
Jamil bid Xris a
silent and rueful good-bye, wished them both luck, and prepared for takeoff. He
was seated in the communicator’s chair. A voice came over his helmet.
“Navy Three Five
Niner Zircon, you are cleared for priority launch on runway Two Niner. All
traffic is cleared of your launch and egress vectors. Have a good flight.
Pandor Tower out.”
The pilot wasted
no time. The spaceplane—clumsy and awkward on the ground, graced with a deadly
beauty in space—lurched forward, taxied to the runway.
The takeoff and
flight were, in Navy terms, uneventful, despite the fact that lightning struck
the fuselage of the spaceplane at least three times that Jamil counted. He
expected all sorts of dire consequences, from the engines blowing up to the
electrical systems going haywire, but nothing happened. The pilot didn’t seem
bothered by the strikes. VanDerGard apparently hadn’t even noticed. Jamil quit
looking out the viewscreen. Gritting his teeth, sweating and nervous, clutching
the arms of the seat, he faced grimly forward. He detested space flight. This
was exactly the reason why he’d joined the Army. Ninety percent of the time,
your feet were on solid ground.
Once into space,
the pilot kicked in the radiation drive and exited the Pandoran solar system.
Jamil looked out the viewscreen again. A tiny speck of light, no brighter than
the stars around it, began to grow larger. Jamil stared at it and, forgetting
where he was and under what circumstances, he whistled.
“Never seen a
command cruiser before, sir?” VanDerGard asked.
“Not for a very
long time,” Jamil answered truthfully. “And they never looked like that! My
god, but she’s huge.”
“The King James
II is one of the new Septimus Severus Class command cruisers,” VanDerGard
said with obvious pride. “She was only commissioned four months ago. The king
and queen both attended the launching ceremonies.”
The ship was
larger in area than many cities, held more people. Its blue-gray durasteel hull
shone in the reflected light of Pandor’s distant sun. Lights from hundreds of
portholes sparkled on its surface. Its hull was smooth, sleek, unmarred by
antennae, guns, torpedo tubes, lascannons or any other weapon mounts.
But they were
there. Harry—who kept up on all the Navy’s new designs—had gone on for days
about how all the weapons and other instruments had been built into the hull.
When the ship went into action, she must be an awesome sight. Jamil imagined
gunports sliding open, torpedo launch mounts lifting into place. He was so
interested, he almost forgot that he was likely to see more of this ship than
he wanted.
Like the brig.
VanDerGard was
conferring
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