anymore.
There were…prettier women on the ship and women more than willing to experience mating with an alien, he was learning, but all he wanted was Sara. She had something more than pretty, though if he had to describe it, he’d be at a loss. Whatever it was, it seemed to be exactly what he needed.
As the only back up pilot, Fyn could be called on to fill in on any ship in the wing. With Sara’s squadron back at full strength, they were back on the rotation, which left Fyn at loose ends. He usually ended up heading down to the repair hanger with Briggs, since Carey was also on active in the main fighter bay.
“ Chewie ?” It was Carey on the radio he’d been issued.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got a man down. Can you come finish the shift?”
It didn’t take him long, since the repair bay was over the Dauntless hanger bay. Fyn felt his tension rise as he entered, catching some of it from the two crews on duty. Warriors had an instinct for when something was about to happen. The air in the bay was thick with it.
Sara leaned against her ship, her expression cool and closed, her fingers tapping against the wing of her bird. Now that he’d seen her play, he knew she was hearing music in her head and playing it. She did pause to look at him as he walked past, a flicker of a smile passing over her face.
Carey showed him to his ship, bravo2. It was inevitable that his call sign became Chewie , though he still wasn’t sure what the joke was. He wasn’t as hairy as the Chewie in the movie. And he didn’t howl.
Inevitably, he found himself watching Sara. Kitted out in her flight suit, she looked a lot like the first time he saw her, only without the blood. Her lashes were almost closed, as she half swayed to music only she could hear.
Suddenly her eyes widened and she reached for her helmet. The general alarm sounded a full heartbeat after that. He didn’t have time to think about what he’d seen. He was Carey’s wingman. When the order came, he followed Carey out. His tracking came up, something called a heads up display or HUD for short, and it was lit up.
“Looks like we got another furball, playmates,” Carey said. “Fangs out and form up on me. Let’s teach these gomers their second lesson in intergalactic etiquette. Stay on my six, bravo2.”
Carey’s ship angled, turning sharply and then headed straight for the line of incoming Dusan fighters. Right on his six, Fyn followed him in, fanning his wings to avoid incoming fire. He was more than happy to make some Dusan go away.
* * * *
Sara wondered if she’d choke or hesitate, but she didn’t have time to think about anything as she dove into the dogfight. It was almost easy. There were so many enemy ships, it was like shooting fish in a barrel—well, probably like it, since she’d never shot fish in a barrel. Or out of one for that matter.
Her bird responded like a trooper, at times it seemed all she had to do was think and it danced out of the way of incoming fire. She cut a swathe through a section of ships, then did a bat turn and made some more of them go away.
No question who had the faster ships or best fighter pukes. The gomers attacked in groups of five ships, close flying, which made it easy to take out more than one ship with each shot.
The formation of Dusan craft broke up and tried to reform. One of them took out one of his own guys. A ship tried to play chicken with her and lost. As she dodged, rolled, spun and fired, her SA, “situational awareness” was so high, she knew where every friendly was and how they were doing. It was odd, but she was used to odd.
More squadrons poured out the fighter bay of the Doolittle and the enemy began to fall back. Like dogs after sheep, they wanted to follow, but the Old Man whistled them home to mother.
Sara reluctantly turned her nose toward the ship. She was lined up in the hawk circle, waiting her turn to go in, when the autopilot abruptly engaged and her ship pulled out of
There were…prettier women on the ship and women more than willing to experience mating with an alien, he was learning, but all he wanted was Sara. She had something more than pretty, though if he had to describe it, he’d be at a loss. Whatever it was, it seemed to be exactly what he needed.
As the only back up pilot, Fyn could be called on to fill in on any ship in the wing. With Sara’s squadron back at full strength, they were back on the rotation, which left Fyn at loose ends. He usually ended up heading down to the repair hanger with Briggs, since Carey was also on active in the main fighter bay.
“ Chewie ?” It was Carey on the radio he’d been issued.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got a man down. Can you come finish the shift?”
It didn’t take him long, since the repair bay was over the Dauntless hanger bay. Fyn felt his tension rise as he entered, catching some of it from the two crews on duty. Warriors had an instinct for when something was about to happen. The air in the bay was thick with it.
Sara leaned against her ship, her expression cool and closed, her fingers tapping against the wing of her bird. Now that he’d seen her play, he knew she was hearing music in her head and playing it. She did pause to look at him as he walked past, a flicker of a smile passing over her face.
Carey showed him to his ship, bravo2. It was inevitable that his call sign became Chewie , though he still wasn’t sure what the joke was. He wasn’t as hairy as the Chewie in the movie. And he didn’t howl.
Inevitably, he found himself watching Sara. Kitted out in her flight suit, she looked a lot like the first time he saw her, only without the blood. Her lashes were almost closed, as she half swayed to music only she could hear.
Suddenly her eyes widened and she reached for her helmet. The general alarm sounded a full heartbeat after that. He didn’t have time to think about what he’d seen. He was Carey’s wingman. When the order came, he followed Carey out. His tracking came up, something called a heads up display or HUD for short, and it was lit up.
“Looks like we got another furball, playmates,” Carey said. “Fangs out and form up on me. Let’s teach these gomers their second lesson in intergalactic etiquette. Stay on my six, bravo2.”
Carey’s ship angled, turning sharply and then headed straight for the line of incoming Dusan fighters. Right on his six, Fyn followed him in, fanning his wings to avoid incoming fire. He was more than happy to make some Dusan go away.
* * * *
Sara wondered if she’d choke or hesitate, but she didn’t have time to think about anything as she dove into the dogfight. It was almost easy. There were so many enemy ships, it was like shooting fish in a barrel—well, probably like it, since she’d never shot fish in a barrel. Or out of one for that matter.
Her bird responded like a trooper, at times it seemed all she had to do was think and it danced out of the way of incoming fire. She cut a swathe through a section of ships, then did a bat turn and made some more of them go away.
No question who had the faster ships or best fighter pukes. The gomers attacked in groups of five ships, close flying, which made it easy to take out more than one ship with each shot.
The formation of Dusan craft broke up and tried to reform. One of them took out one of his own guys. A ship tried to play chicken with her and lost. As she dodged, rolled, spun and fired, her SA, “situational awareness” was so high, she knew where every friendly was and how they were doing. It was odd, but she was used to odd.
More squadrons poured out the fighter bay of the Doolittle and the enemy began to fall back. Like dogs after sheep, they wanted to follow, but the Old Man whistled them home to mother.
Sara reluctantly turned her nose toward the ship. She was lined up in the hawk circle, waiting her turn to go in, when the autopilot abruptly engaged and her ship pulled out of
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