A View from the cockpit

[will_marx 0]

“Colonel, Squadron Leader Bader’s been killed!” A Rebel pilot ran up from the hangar and reported.

 

“Damn,” Spacely growled. “He may not have been a Biggs Darklighter or Wedge Antilles, but he was the best pilot we had here.”

 

Marx listened to the senior Rebel officers, and began scheming. As Tactical Officer, he had a direct responsibility to defend the ship from attack. As a member of Starfleet Special Operations Command, he and his team’s actions had a direct result in the defense of the Federation, similar to, yet different from Section 31. But as Chief of Security, his responsibilities changed. He was now the leader of a team assigned to protect the Arcadia from infiltration and sabotage of the ship; to work with the 355th Recon in certain field problems, and to provide “clay pigeons” on away team missions. And of course, one of the biggest problems facing him, as Chief of Security, was, besides being lost in both space and time, the dearth of trained personnel in the Security Department, thanks to the antagonistic personality of Lord High Muckety Muck, Lt. N’Dak.

 

But that was not in the here and now; that was the Away Team being danger of being either buried alive (preferable) or captured by the Imperials (not a pleasant thought). “Colonel,” Marx said, looking straight at the short, balding, and mustachioed Rebel, “I’m a pilot. I can fly.”

 

Spacely gave the one-eyed “stormtrooper” and incredulous look, then sighed. “Alright, take Blue Squadron.”

 

“Aye, Colonel. Commander?” CDR Lo’Ami nodded his assent, and Marx took off running for the hangar bay.

 

 

The bay itself was controlled chaos. Almost all of the ground crews were veterans of the desperate victory at Yavin, and the even more desperate evacuation at Hoth. The pilots of Red, Blue and Green Squadrons were either green rookies with only a few hours logged in either T-16 Skyhoppers or Z-95 Headhunters, or such skilled bomber pilots that they could put a proton torpedo up the back end of a bantha in a Tatooine sandstorm. Which meant that all had precious few hours in actual combat maneuvers.

 

Marx approached one of the tan shirted Rebels running around. “Where’s Sqn Ldr Bader’s fighter?” The fueler pointed to where an X-wing painted in a pattern disruptive blue camouflage sat. A green and gray R2 unit was being hoisted into the slot behind the cockpit.

 

“Who are you,” the crew chief growled, as Marx approached the fighter.

 

“I’m the new pilot of this bird,” Marx replied, as he set his Marine EV suit down.

 

“Good. I didn’t want to slave it to another fighter for the evacuation, with Imps around. I’m sure they’d love to get their filthy hands on one.” The near-human technician continued prepping the fighter for combat.

 

As Marx began pulling on the black EV suit, he looked up at the dome behind the cockpit. “What’s with the dome behind the cockpit?” Said “dome” gave Marx what sound like a raspberry.

 

“That’s your R2 unit,” the crew chief replied. “He’s your copilot, navigator, and flight engineer.”

 

“Ah…got it,” he said, as he sealed the last closure on the suit and began climbing up the ladder. Marx settled into the ejection seat, and began looking over the instrument panel. Some of the gauges and controls looked familiar, others he thought he had a vague idea about, and still others he had no idea. “So,” he said into the intercom, “what exactly do I call you?”

 

The little droid behind the cockpit beeped and chirped. “My designation is ‘R4-D5’.”

 

“Alright then.” He switched channels and began radio checks with Blue Squadron. The other fifteen fighters reported in, scratchy but readable. “Control, Blue Leader. Radio check.”

 

“Scratchy but audible Blue One. Be advised, the Imps are jamming all long-range communications.”

 

“Roger,” Marx replied. “Yves St. Laurent, Blue One. Radio check.”

 

“Scratchy but readable,” LCpl . Saina replied.

 

With the last radio check done, Marx got comfortable on the ejection seat, and waited for the launch order.