Farrell Log One

[Banshee Farrell 0]

Camelot Station

CENTRAL HUB: Levels 37 – 49

Petty Officer First Class Banshee Farrell

 

Level forty four of the Camelot Station was entertaining business as usual, which meant things were loud, noisy, repair machinery ran constantly, and the place reeked of oil, gel pack fluids, and burning wires.

 

Banshee Farrell made her way through the organized chaos, stopping only long enough to wave hello to any fellow mechanics that she usually hung out with for a drink or a card game. She, like the other grease monkeys and knuckle draggers that worked on the vehicles and equipment on this level, wore the orange and black protective jumpsuit of a deck hand. Today, she had been assigned to start the maintenance checks and overhaul of the runabout Congo. The rumor around the lower decks was that one of the newly assigned junior pilots had been on the duty roster to take the small transport ship out as the lead patrol pilot, but had muffed up the return landing pretty badly. No one had been hurt, save for the runabout.

 

The Irish born woman stopped in mid stride when she caught sight of the vehicle from across the deck. “Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph. The thing oughta be scrapped!”

 

The Congo was … well … it looked like it had been … this was bad.

 

Farrell set her took kit down on the decking and stood with her hands on her hips, alternating between Federation standard, Irish cussing, and general mutterings as she surveyed the damage from her stationary stand point. The mechanic was just trying to get her head around a plan of attack, or in this case, a plan of repair.

 

“Excuse me, Petty Officer Farrell?”

 

Farrell turned at the sound of the voice, and her ice blue gaze latched onto a younger woman about her height. “Aye, what can I do you for Ensign?”

 

The woman seemed a bit hesitant. “Actually, I’m here to assist you. My squad lead, Lieutenant Jericho, sent me down.”

 

Realization dawned like a gunshot. “Oh wait a minute, are you the pilot that dinged up this bird?” The petty officer first class jerked a thumb toward the runabout.

 

“Uh, yes.”

 

“What in the name of all that is holy were ya thinkin’ girl?”

 

“Now wait just a minute Petty Officer …”

 

Farrell was having none of this from the ensign, and her brogue thickened with her level of annoyance. “You hush now girl, I wont be havin’ any o’ your officer lip. I can tell ya ‘xactly wha’ happened. You tried to get a little fancy with the landing, and ended up kissing the deck plates. Am I right?”

 

A blush crept up the girl’s neck, and she nodded once. “Aye.”

 

“You’re the fourth newbie pilot that did that half assed stunt since I’ve been here. I take it your squad lead has ya on punishment duty?”

 

Another nod from the junior pilot confirmed the question.

 

Farrell ran a hand through her short blond hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples and relaxed her stern facial expression by a small margin. “Fine. Just so ya know, I’ll be keeping tabs on your performance during the repair job, and I ain’t shy about telling the truth in case ya can’t tell. Once we are done repairing the Congo, I’ll send the report off to your CAG as well as your squad lead. Okay, get your rear end moving; grab a jumpsuit in one o’ those lockers set just off the deck. Once you’re settled we can get started and you can tell me exactly how you managed to bend the right nacelle pontoon back in a forty five degree angle.