$BChapter $B5 $B– $BPredator $Band $BPrey


$BSleeping $BQuarters$B, $BTCS $BWellington

$BDeep $BSpace$B, $BOberan $BSystem

$B0342 $Bhours $B(CST)$B, $B2669.192


David slumped into an available bunk in the Starjumper junior squadron's sleeping quarters. The lounge and the Diamondback's quarters had been seriously hulled during the battle with the Kilrathi. With nothing but a quick patch job separating the bunks from the vacuum of space, Major Baws had ordered David and 2nd Lt. Jeremy "Floyd" Pink, the only other surviving Diamondback OCS pilot, to grab a bed in their counterpart junior squadron's sleeping quarters. 

Tragically, there was more than enough space to accommodate the impromptu move. Like the young members of the Diamondbacks, most of the Starjumper pilot's final resting place would be the vacuum of space in the Oberan system. Only Hoobler had safely landed after the Kilrathi sneak attack. Apparently, another Starjumper, Huntress, had ejected during the battle and was rescued shortly before the Wellington began making her best speed out of the area. She had been immediately rushed to the medical bay with a few broken bones and burns over a large portion of her body, effectively reducing the flight wing to David, Major Baws, Assassin, Ninja, Hoobler and Floyd.

Despite the horrible loss of their comrades, David had had little time to reflect on the recent battle. The fighter wing was not the only casualties onboard the crippled carrier. Over a fifth of the crew had sustained injuries of some kind. While some were able to carry on with their duties, most were either under medical care, occupying any free space the corpsmen could find to administer treatment, or residents of the temporary morgue. With the Majority of the casualties inflicted on damage control teams, David and the remaining pilots of the Wellington's fighter wing joined the various undermanned repair crews scattered throughout the stricken old carrier, struggling to keep her afloat. David had always prided himself on his diligent academic studies while at school and in the OCS program, but all his degree had apparently qualified him for in damage control duties was clearing debris and tracking down various replacement parts. 

After ten hours of extensive labor throughout the ship, the flight deck was cleared for launch operations, a quarter of the laser turret batteries were back up to full strength, the shield generators were intermittently functional, and the old lady was limping through the system at one-fourth of her top speed. 

David buried his head in his hands. Even with the heroic effort of the ship's crew, he couldn't help but feel it might all be for nothing. The engines had been hit especially hard during the attack and the old girl's fuel cells were beyond repair. The chief engineer had promised the Captain he could squeeze six more hours out of the remaining fuel, but, after that, the ship would have to run with her ramscoops open, piping interstellar gases directly into the reactor. This would leave two hours of relatively slow travel to reach the Eddings jump point with an unknown force of Kilrathi in pursuit. 

David snorted and shook his head. 

If the Cats didn't catch up to them while they were traveling scoops closed and 'dragless' at a few thousand kilometers per hour, they sure as hell would after the opened magnetic scoops slowed the carrier to a proverbial crawl. With the Wellington's two escorts destroyed and the George Custer assumed lost, no matter what Cat forces were in the system, David was sure they could handle the six remaining fighters and a battered, obsolete light carrier.

A few minutes ago, Baws had ordered the remaining pilots away from their damage control duties and to their sleeping quarters for what hopefully would be a few hours rest before the Wellington was forced to open her scoops, the time that the Kilrathi were most likely to catch up and attempt to finish what they had started. 

David snickered to himself. It wouldn't take much in their current condition. Still, David knew this crew and his fellow pilots wouldn't let the Cats claim their prize easily. 

David considered lying down and closing his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. There seemed to be something about impending death that caused a man to really enjoy being awake, even if all he could do while conscious was think about his coming demise. 

He looked up towards the lockers to see if he could tell which of his fallen comrades was drifting through the void instead of lying in this bunk. Huntress, 2nd Lt. Lindsey Davenport, the pilot who had been rescued and immediately carted off to medical, had previously owned this bed. Lindsey had been one of the handful of women who had broken up this "boys club" of OCS graduates. She and Angela had become fast friends since meeting onboard the Wellington.

David sighed as he stood up and walked across the room towards his friend's locker. He ran his fingers across the curling tape that displayed her callsign. Angela had always had a way of making everything seem a little less serious. Always the one to schedule a gravball tournament on the eve of finals or convince everyone a night out was a good idea after a particularly brutal simulator session, Angela was someone a person immediately wanted to like, despite her outward abrasive personality. Having Angela around made every situation seem manageable. David wished she was here now. The current state of affairs could use Panzer's touch.  

He opened the locker door. Attached to the inside were several holo-images, representing a small sample of the young woman's incomplete life. One was of her when she was a young girl, encircled by her father, mother and older sister. Angela had not shared very much about her parents, just that they had passed away when she was in her early teens. 

Also decorating the door was an image of an older Angela and her sister in front of the Space Forces Flight School on Sirius. Both were all smiles, Angela's sister decked out in her formal cadet uniform, posing beside a commemorative fighter statue in front of the main campus building. David had learned that Angela's sister had graduated from the Academy before attending flight school and had racked up thirteen Kilrathi kills to her credit before she was shot down a few months before Angela was accepted to their OCS program. 

Farther down the door was an image of Angela, David, 'Honeybear' Hasselbeck, Champ, Hoobler, Floyd and a few of their OCS classmates in front of the historic clock tower on campus, taken shortly after their graduation ceremony. David found himself smiling in spite of the situation at the picture. Simpler, more innocent times from just a few months ago already seemed so long ago. He laughed to himself. He found it morbidly amusing that someone in their early twenties would already be looking back on the last few months as 'simpler, more innocent times'.

David turned his attention to the contents of the locker. Besides the normal pilot gear and personal effects, David found a small case he had caught Angela looking into many times. She had always hastily closed the case and put on a double layer of her "tough as nails" persona, until the day David had forced the issue and goaded her into revealing what was in the case.

David picked up the box from his friend's locker and opened it. Angela's sister's Academy ring rested in the bottom, her ace ribbons and bronze star still very carefully pinned to the top velvet pad, just as they had been the first time he had seen them. He carefully removed the ring and turned it over in his fingers as he slumped against the lockers. How many more of these would be granted to graduates? The way the war was progressing, the chances that another class would make it out of Hitheros was slimming.

The quiet in the room was pierced as the large blast doors leading to the hallway suddenly began to cycle, momentarily startling David. The doors opened to reveal Hoobler and Floyd, each carrying a few ration packs. Hoobler threw one of them across the room towards David. The young officer caught the package, but tossed it down onto Angela's bunk.

"No thanks, man," David said to Hoobler, with a half-hearted grin, "Don't have the appetite for freeze dried meat loaf right now."

"Even a condemned man gets a last meal," Hoobler replied with an equally unenthusiastic smile. "Even if it does taste like rubber."

David forced himself to laugh before turning his attention back to the emblem in his hand. 

"What's so interesting?" Floyd asked as he tore open a ration pack and plopped down on the bunk opposite Angela's.

David held the ring for the two pilots to see and tossed it to Hoobler. Hoobler caught it and opened his hand so that he and Floyd could see what had held David's interest. David watched as recognition spread across each of their faces as they realized the significance of the emblem.

"Angela's sister," David began, answering the question before it had been asked, "Graduated near the top of her class. Few months after flight school, she and her wingman stumbled across a flight of Grikath and Sartha on a strike approach to her carrier. She and her wingman got the warning out to the carrier group but bought it before the interceptors could be scrambled."

David held out the open box for the two other pilots to see.

"Posthumously awarded the bronze star, for all that's worth," David said, an edge creeping into his voice.

Hoobler sat down on the end of Angela's bunk and handed the ring back to David. 

"She probably saved a lot of people that day," Hoobler offered, "just as Angela did today."

"God, this waiting is going to kill me," he exclaimed. "I can't believe Baws actually thought we would get any sleep knowing we probably won't live to see another day."

David shrugged as he moved back to Angela's locker.

"If anything, it gives us time to rest so we aren't fighting depression, sleep deprivation and fatigue all at the same time," David offered with a wry smile.

"I guess," Floyd responded, his hands balling into fists. "I just really hate running when we know there is no finish line at the end of this race. I want to turn and face those Cat bastards on our own terms."

Hoobler gave a grim laugh.

"Floyd, I don't think any battle we could get in would be anywhere close to our terms," he responded.

"Besides," David said as he placed Angela's sister's ring in its place, "we have a better reason for running."

"What's that?" Floyd asked, skeptically.

David turned towards the young pilot.

"The longer we run, the more of this ship's systems come online," David responded. "The more ship systems that are repaired, the better chance this ship has to make it to the jump point in one piece,"

"You're still holding onto the hope that we can get out of this?" Floyd questioned.

David shook his head. 

"I personally don't think we have a snowball's chance in the deepest, hottest region of Hell," David said, matter-of-factly, holding up the velvet-lined display case and gesturing to the empty bunks. "But a lot of our friends died today attempting to give this ship and her crew a chance at survival, and I'll be damned if I'm going to throw that all away as long as there's the smallest possibility that their sacrifice wasn't in vain."

Floyd opened his mouth to counter David's remarks, but, instead, plopped down on the bunk behind him.

"I guess you've got a point," he grudgingly offered. 

Hoobler stood up and began walking across the room. 

"Well, I don't know about you, Floyd," he said with a smile, "but I need a drink after hearing that pep talk."

David laughed.

"Hoobler, you always need a drink, no matter what the situation is," he replied.

The young Starjumper chuckled as he stopped at his locker. Rummaging for a few moments he pulled out a small bottle of amber colored liquid, a glass and a flask.

"Hoobler, were you a Boy Scout?" Floyd asked with a hint of a smile. "Because you, sir, are always prepared."

The trio chuckled as Hoobler handed the flask to David, the glass to Floyd and kept the bottle for himself. He began to pour Floyd a drink. 

"What should we drink to?" Hoobler asked.

"Even with that inspirational speech there, David, I don't think there's much left for us to be thankful for," Floyd answered, his smile growing a bit wider.

David returned the smile and raised his flask.

"To the DiMarco sisters," he offered as he looked and gestured upwards, "making sure Confederation pilots everywhere have a home to come back to. Rest in peace, Angela."

Hoobler grinned and raised his bottle.

"To the Diamondbacks and Starjumpers," Hoobler joined in, "two squadrons cut down before their time."

Floyd stood up and raised his glass.

"To indigestion," he said, drawing quizzical glances from both David and Hoobler.

Floyd shrugged.

"Well I'm sure as Hell not going down smooth when the Cats come calling for dinner again," he said with a grin.

David and Hoobler returned the smile.

"To indigestion," they said in unison before downing the liquid.

All three then, also in unison, spat out their drinks, and began coughing and gasping for air.

"Speaking of going down smooth and indigestion," Floyd finally said through the torrent of coughing, "what the hell was that, Hoobler?"

"I don't understand," Hoobler gasped, stumbling towards his locker, "It was twenty year-old scotch my brother gave me as a graduation gift."

David leaned on the lockers as a coughing fit about made him black out.

"Hoobler, I don't like your brother very much," he managed to get out before more coughing robbed him of his ability to speak.

Hoobler made it to his locker and began throwing its contents all over the room. He pulled a slip of paper out from the bottom and collapsed into his bunk after reading it, a mixture of laughter and coughing taking hold of him.

"What's his problem?" Floyd asked.

"Champ . . . strikes from beyond . . . the grave!" Hoobler finally got out before convulsing into another round of laughing and coughing.

Once more regaining control, he read the scrap of paper for David and Floyd's benefit.    

"'Thanks, Hoobler. You saved me from having to drink the swill the bartender on this tub calls scotch. You might find a better use for what's now in your bottle and flask the next time you need to move a fighter on the Flight Deck. Love, Champ.'"

"Tractor fuel?" Floyd asked, incredulously.

"That would be my guess," Hoobler answered, a wide smile stretched across his face.

David had to grin.

"Somewhere, Champ is enjoying having the last laugh way too much, as usual," he said, his composure finally returning.

"Nevermind that," Floyd said, his mock anger betrayed by the smirk on his face, "the bastard left us without a drop of alcohol onboard."

Hoobler picked up the bottle of fuel and raised it.

"To Champ!" he said loudly as he threw the bottle into the waste disposal unit.

David and Floyd shared a smile. 

"To Champ!" David and Floyd echoed, each throwing their "drinks" into the disposal.

The three pilots laughed as they left the Starjumper's sleeping quarters in search of something a little less potent to wash the taste out of their mouths.