"A Big Problem"

[STSF Jumper 0]

Wild Card Fighter Squadron

Attached to Camelot Station

Secondary Patrol Run

Lieutenant (jg.) Jagrissa “Jumper” Honor-Scar

 

= = = = = =

 

Jumper Honor-Scar stayed close on her wingman position to lead pilot Psych Out Kendrick, covering the human woman’s tail as ordered. The other four members of the patrol group were on point, flank and rear guard positions respectively.

 

“So, do you think Gaia squad is as bored out here as we are boss lady?” The Caitians purred voice carried over the wireless communications line that the squad shared.

 

Kendricks voice came over the line a moment later. “Aye, I’d imagine so. But, remember what I told everyone during the pre-flight brief about all the upheaval that’s being caused by some of the diplomatic ambassadors pulling out, and the Intel rumors about a few scattered dust ups between the Scorps and their former slaves. At this point, anything and anyone could be considered a threat to the station, so let’s keep on alert within the system.”

 

“… nice pep talk Lieutenant.”

 

“Stow it Jumper. And spell Storan for a while on the point guard.”

 

= = = = = =

 

About three hours into the patrol run, a small blip appeared once, and then a second time on the small radar inset mounted into Jumper’s main control console. The feline pilot performed a quick systems check on the Lancelot fighter to make sure that nothing was malfunctioning. After the third blip though, it was obvious that something was up.

 

The Caitian spoke into the helmet to helmet wireless, knowing that the rest of the squad would immediately pick up on the communication. “Psych Out, this is Jumper. I have a signal of unknown origin that pinged my sensors three times, repeat three times. Please advise.”

 

The human squad leads voice answered the felines query a moment later. “Got it Jumper. I see the data feed on the blip now. Proceed to the point of origin and check it out. We will trace you on the tracking sensors and catch up. Look for us on your six, coming in on vector three.”

 

A feral smile exposed her fangs behind the clear faceplate of the black pilot’s helmet. Finally! Some action! “I’m on it Psych, Jumper out.”

 

= = = = = =

 

A short while later, Honor-Scar found herself circling a communications and data relay drone that had basically gone on standby mode. From the erratic signals coming off the thing, it was pretty obvious it needed to be repaired or at least given a program overhaul. Jumper had commed the rest of the squad to inform them of what she found, and Kendrick ordered her to maintain a holding pattern around the relay until the rest of the Wild Cards could catch up.

 

A nearby field of floating detritus was also cause for some concern. It looked as if certain relay repair parts had been discarded and left to float, and while it wasn’t a common practice, it was known to happen especially if civilian engineering repair companies were contracted to repair a relay drone. The civvies just weren’t as neat as the Fleet corp of engineers. The Wild Cards would tag both the relay for repair as well as the floating field of parts for removal, and then move on with the patrol run. So of course, while she was waiting, the headstrong Caitian pilot did a few barrel rolls and flips just for spite, knowing that the security cam mounted on her Lancelot would record the ‘outlawed’ maneuvers. The feline zipped her bird in and out of the debris field and around the communications relay drone, enjoying the moment and reveling in the freedom of being out in the black. This truly was the only time that she felt free from the confines of her work. It was during one of the barrel rolls that she caught something out of the corner of her eye, but had the visual on it too late to do anything about the piece of metal shrapnel as it crashed into her left fore wing. Jumper swore in vehement Caitian and got her bird back under control by jigging the control stick hard to the left. While a debris field was a great training ground in order to maneuver on the fly and against objects that didn’t always do what you wanted them to do, it also meant there was more of a chance that one of the objects would slam into your fighter jet. Which was why these sorts of training programs were usually well controlled affairs, and only senior pilots would participate.

 

She visually inspected the dinged up portion of the wing through her orange hued canopy and swore some more, finally prompting Psych Out to say something. “What is the matter with you Jumper? I really hope you aren’t carrying on a conversation with yourself.”

 

The young tawny furred feline tried to hedge (translation: lie) through the conversation. “I ran into some ah, technical difficulties, that’s all. Don’t worry about it Psych Out.”

 

“Send me your data stream now.” As a general rule, even with the reputation of the entire squad as being quick on the stick, Kendrick kept them all on a tight leash, especially Jumper.

 

A couple of tense minutes passed and then the senior lieutenant came on the helmet to helmet communications lines again. “Jumper, our ETA to your position is just under five minutes. After we formally tag the repair position of that drone, you will be relieved of wingman duties until further notice and will maintain the middle patrol position for the run back to Camelot …”

 

Oh, this was bad, and Kendrick was ticked off. The middle patrol position was technically a protective zone within the flight pattern of the entire squad, usually reserved for newbie pilots or training cadets so the more senior squad members could keep an eye on them.

 

“ .. and I’m sure Farrell’s gonna love you after reviewing this lovely little bit of footage, so have fun on the repair duty cycle with her. And one more thing Jumper – this is the second time you pulled that crap on a patrol. So, since you seem so bored, and you’ll be working on the repairs on your normal first shift, I’m putting you in for the second shift supply hops to the Avalon planetary base, two cycle durations. Kendrick out.”

 

Jumper Honor-Scar blew out a puff of air in disgust. Her mood wasn’t brightened any when a text mail from another one of her squad mates flashed across one of the small cockpit data screens: Kitteh, you are so screwed. Glad I’m not you.

 

Idiots. She was surrounded by idiots.