"Flight Recruit Volunteer"

[LeftEar JoNs 0]

04.06.08

USS Excalibur NCC-2004 C

“Flight Recruit Volunteer”

 

Things were going smoothly, for a change. The Excalibur was swiftly warping toward the Class M planet now given Citrus as a designation name. Apparently, the name was bestowed on the planet due to some sort of pet in sciences. It sounded like such a cute name, so the pet was obviously going to be a cute and fuzzy animal of some such. Regardless, JoNs would need to pay a visit down to the science offices in order to investigate and make sure the pet wasn’t a breach of regulations. Anything that was dangerous, toxic, or pets that went above the established weight and size limit for a fleet vessel were subject to expulsion in any manner that the executive officer saw fit.

 

Shore leave on Citrus would be a welcome distraction for the crew, as tempers and testosterone and hormones and egos (and the feline exec included herself in this mess, as her normally dormant temper had collided with her rigid and rule bound personality - a dangerous combination - during one point in all the chaos) were flying at warp nine and closing. The down time would enable the crew to let off steam and re-focus on the mission op to find and locate the Founders. The crew would also have the option of either enjoying some shore leave time on the planetary surface, or paying their respects during the small funeral ceremony that had been planned for the downed Epsilon Squad fighters. It was entirely up to each individual how they would spend their time, and an official memo had already been distributed to the department heads regarding the shore leave rotations and the scheduled time of the funeral.

 

Left Ear had drawn up an outline of the ceremony, and had kept it simple. A few words of respect said over the bodies, a flyby led by Lieutenant Ramson as was appropriate since she was the CAG, and then the bodies would be jettisoned via the torpedo tubes out into space, which was the modern Starfleet version of am ancient burial at sea. Once the draft outline for the ceremony had been complete, the feline had sent the text mail off to Captain Corizon for review and had cc’d Ramson out of respect for the flight commander.

 

The commander leaned back in her chair and ran a paw lightly over the pilot’s communicator wings that she had retrieved from a drawer and placed on the surface of her desk. The design hadn’t changed much over the years, and only if you looked closely enough could you notice the wings that protruded out from the fleet symbol; the pilot badge closely resembled a communicator version of the Marine colonel and lieutenant colonel rank pips actually.

 

Yeah. She really wanted to do this. Her sense of duty kept nagging at her, and it was time to listen to her inner voice. The action she was about to take felt right and proper.

 

Brown paws deftly flew over the keyboard inset into the desktop, and soon JoNs had a memo typed up and all set to go. An uncharacteristic smile - showcasing sharp fangs – lightened the normally dour panther-like Caitians features as she finally came to a decision about what she would do.

 

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To: Lieutenant (junior grade) Kallah Ramson, Commander Air Group

From: Commander MVess JoNs, Executive Officer

CC: Captain Ah-Windu Corizon, Commanding Officer

Re: Epsilon Squad

 

Lieutenant Ramson:

 

I should have said this to you when you first mentioned your intention of culling replacement fighter pilots from those qualified among the crew of the Excalibur. I let my hesitation cloud my judgment. With the loss of an entire fighter squad, it is time for me to step up and do my part.

 

I am offering my piloting services to you. My skills have been maintained over these last few years, and all of my necessary licenses and clearances are up to date. My call sign of Left Ear, in addition, has not been retired. I am able bodied and prepared, and will tow the line in whatever position you need me to fill – first response pilot, alert five pilot, or Radar Intercept Officer. Now, before you go checking on my personal record to see if I am a viable candidate, let me tell you in my own words what my record will not.

 

From 2373 to 2375, I was a junior midshipman pilot, fresh out of basic. I was stationed on the USS Repulse, and participated in a variety of Dominion War based missions and skirmishes: troop transport, supply runs, short and long range scouting missions, recon hops, personnel transport. Whatever the brass needed doing, my old squad did it and we did it well. We did it all.

 

To this day, I am not one hundred percent sure what happened. I’ve been to doctors, and psychologists, and really haven’t gotten a viable diagnosis. But, I’m getting ahead of my story.

 

Myself and the squad were on a troop transport mission. It was a couple months after the close of the war, so spirits were high, and the Repulse was assigned to sector clean up – collecting marine troops from various duty stations enacted during the war and ferrying them to a post war debriefing location. I was piloting a troop hopper, as was a squad mate of mine, and the remaining four members of my squad were doing escort duty. The whole operation was such a milk run it wasn’t even funny, and we were all bantering back and forth and making jokes.

 

Suddenly, all hell broke loose. An aft converter blew on the secondary troop hopper piloted by my buddy and the wreckage flew out and busted up my canopy. Then, he temporarily lost control of his bird during the shockwave and slammed it into my vehicle. We were all still in the lower atmo of the planet, so there was really no danger of decompression, and the minor fender bender didn’t further damage the two of us to the point of losing any altitude.

 

However, the event triggered something within myself, and I panicked. I couldn’t continue controlling the shuttle, and my breathing became erratic. One of the marines on board the shuttle managed to contact my squad lead, and she and another one of our escort pilots talked me down and took up wingman flanking positions on either side of my transport hopper, getting myself and the shuttle safely back on the ground.

 

I didn’t muster out of the pilot division right away after this incident. For about two more years I served as a jumper jock, mainly doing courier runs, personnel transports, and long and short range recon hops. There was no combat duty for me during this time, and it was probably for the best actually.

 

Today, looking back on that nasty afternoon (hindsight is a wonderful thing), I know for a fact that I was burned out and it culminated in that panic attack. I didn’t sense anything wrong, and didn’t read the signs that my body was giving me over the months. The War took a lot out of those that served, as do all wars, some more so then others. And not everyone reacts in the same way. I think a couple of the older marines that I was transporting knew what happened actually, because I remember the look they had in their eyes. It wasn’t pity … it was a shared understanding.

 

My temporary piloting re-assignment to the Mika Four colony outpost during the Excalibur decommissioning was my first official piloting assignment since 2377. While the assignment was most definitely not my idea – rather the sneaky planning of an old colleague of mine - I must say, it felt damn good to get back in the saddle. I believe this is the saying that the humans use?

 

Again, I offer my flight jockey services to you Lieutenant, if you will have me. If you accept this offer, I expect to be treated like any other probie recruit, and will respect your authority as squadron lead.

 

And I promise not to scare the squadron ensigns. Too badly that is. Perhaps just a little.

 

Sincerely,

 

MVess “Left Ear” JoNs

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With a flick of the paw, the commander entered the necessary coding in order to send the memo off to the intended recipients.