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STSF Jumper

"Reapers are Incoming"

= = = =

“Okay Reapers, we’re scheduled for a supply run to the Avalon Bravo planetary base today. It’ll be a standard formation. We’ll all be in the Lancelot birds as the escort with Jumper flying a retrofitted troop hopper loaded with the supplies in the middle of the formation. Once the supplies are offloaded, the Hopper’ll be taking on passengers heading to Camelot station. We got flight prep in twenty. Let’s move.”

- Lieutenant Commander Darjhan “Swoop” Carson

“Meet the Reapers” (Camelot Station Log).

= = = =

Camelot Station

Reaper Pilot Squad

Acting Ensign Jagrissa “Jumper” Honor-Scar

 

Ensign Honor-Scar gathered her flight equipment quietly and methodically, checking her helmet and flight harness and vest for any small tears or hairline fractures. The upper portion of her black flight suit was tied about her slim waist, and she wore the fleet issue tank top.

 

Bull Dorax stood waiting just outside the shared quarters of the Reaper squad pilots, her tall and lean frame leaning against the outer bulk head. The humanoid Trill checked her wrist chrono one last time before rapping her knuckles on the steel frame of the doorway for a metallic clang effect.

 

“Come on Honor-Scar. We’re on the chronometer here. We have launch in ten. I’m your chaperone until the Reapers are sure you can get your furred head out of your ass, so don’t make me come in there and hurry you along ‘cause it won’t be pretty.”

 

Normally, Jumper would have told the Trill wingman what to go do with herself. Instead, the tawny Caitian feline winged a nasty look toward the general direction of the outer corridor, but ultimately her common sense decided to make an appearance and she let the matter drop with no comment other then to acknowledge the request with an “aye, sir.” Her tail continued to lash angrily though, and she set out on a litany of muttered cuss words from at least three languages.

 

Within a couple of minutes the feline had joined her fellow pilot out in the corridor and the two female jump jocks then started to make their way towards the main flight deck.

 

Jumper suddenly spoke into the silence, her question decidedly out of the blue. “Why the Reapers?”

 

Bull looked at the big talking cat, a bit confused by the random topic, prompting more of an explanation from Honor-Scar.

 

“Kendrick requested a general transfer for me. Why did Lieutenant Commander Carson take the transfer? He didn’t have to take me into the squad, not with all the reserve pilots waiting to get into one of the Camelot main flight groups.”

 

The Trill pilot took a few seconds to ponder her answer, and then decided to just be completely blunt with the feline. Honor-Scar herself was about as subtle as a drunken Klingon, so why – excuse the term – pussy foot around with her?

 

“I’ll be honest when I say that you, Ensign Honor-Scar, are a complete screw-up. Loose on the joystick, play by your own rules, with no regard for authority. You’re a challenge, and the Reapers love a good challenge.” She eyed the feline. “That’s the official story. The unofficial story is no other squad wanted to or was willing take you into their ranks, and so the CAG asked us to take care of you. We’ve done it before for two other pilots who tended toward the whole firebrand thing. So, we have the past experience anyway and it’s not like we don’t know what we are doing with you High Atmo Space Cases.”

 

A tawny ear flipped back in annoyance, but all the same, Jagrissa appreciated the honesty. “That’s fine. Just wanted to know where I stand. So the Reapers are the resident rehabilitators? Lucky you.”

 

“You don’t have to stand anywhere you know. Just do your job and give respect, and you’ll get respect back. I think you sometimes have a real problem figuring out who your enemies are. It isn’t your fellow officers, just for your information. I think if you lost the mercenary code of honor crap you’d do a lot better. This isn’t some sort of alternate universe you know.”

 

“I beg to differ with you Lieutenant. I’m not ashamed of my upbringing and background.”

 

“Just leave them where they belong – in the past. And don’t let it intrude on the present.”

 

“Look, drop the psycho analyzing Lieuten…”

 

“Stow it Ensign and get your mind on today’s mission. The question and answer period is over. That’s an order.”

 

Jumper flinched a bit at the biting tone, but did as she was told, muttering a subdued “Aye sir.”

 

Silence descended between the two women, and nothing further was said the rest of their travel time to the main flight deck; Honor-Scar followed obediently behind the ranking officer, and kept her attitude and opinions to herself.

 

Bull spared a glance over her shoulder back at the feline, and one thought was foremost on her mind: there is potential there. I know there is. The Reapers’ll bring that potential out, or at least start the process moving along.

 

“Okay newbie, there’s your transport bird.” The Trill pointed to the shuttle set off in the distance. “Get her prepped and ready.” With that said, Bull started off toward her own fighter jet that was parked and waiting nearby the shuttle.

 

Jumper’s jaw dropped as she caught sight of the hopper. It was obvious at first sight that there were quite a few years of replacement parts and hull parts slapped onto or welded onto the frame of the beast.

 

The feline called over to the departing senior pilot. “Are you sure this thing has been cleared for flight? And does the term flying deathtrap mean anything to you?”

 

Lieutenant Doran merely turned around, faced toward Jumper, and pointed a silent finger toward the hopper transport, as in “get your tail moving.”

 

Jumper just sighed and walked the rest of the way over to the retrofitted cargo transport, eyeing the beastie with a critical eye born from practice and familiarity. Honestly, the bird wasn’t in that bad of shape, but it had definitely been used over the years.

 

It was one of the heavy class civilian model hoppers, but with the added thruster and engine power to haul a couple tons of cargo or people and break free of a planetary atmosphere. The Hopper was one of the earlier class J-20 designs, with the twin runner “wings” extending out from the boxy main hull and the main cockpit. The two thruster engines were of course set in the back end.

 

Starfleet had been known in the past to contract out at times and commission civilian aero companies to provide cargo and personnel transports for use on space stations or planetary bases as well as the occasional starship. Like all the contracted models, this one was painted the usual matte silver-gray of the Starfleet support craft with the red decal stripe and delta shield of the Starfleet represented on either side of the hull along the cockpit and running along the sides as well. The utility shuttlecraft was usually employed as a troop hopper, flying into whatever areas had become a hot spot were marines or other support personnel were needed and then deploying the officers and staff. Today though the troop transport functioned as a cargo runner, with the Reapers making a supply drop to the Avalon Starfleet facility designated Bravo site. The shuttle was designed to function in whatever capacity that it was needed, and could also be further retrofitted to perform as a full on recon shuttle or search and rescue craft as well. Overall, it was your standard workhorse craft.

 

The overall general design and build of the transport was a cross somewhere between a modern Runabout design and the boxy shuttle designs favored in the 2260’s, and Jumper had to admit, she was excited about the prospect of piloting the J-20 class. The Caitian feline had flown one for a long time when she was running with a New Mars flitter jacking crew, and it would be fun to get behind the stick of one of these butt ugly transports again.

 

The feline did a walk around of the craft and eyeballed the general hull structure and weapons placements. The weapons weren’t much, just a standard phaser package strapped to the underside of both wings as well as the section under the cockpit. But, Jumper really didn’t have to worry about defensive as that was why the Lancelot fighters would be flying escort, for protection. She was satisfied that all was in order, and gave a respectful nod to the departing deck crew who had gotten the bird ready for the cargo drop.

 

Unfortunately, she lingered a bit too long in her admiration and systems check of the old Hopper, and Bull promptly descended on the Caitian pilot. The tall Trill came up behind her and deftly grabbed Jumper by the scruff of the neck, steering the now slightly miffed and mrrowling cat gently toward the entry ramp and giving her a gentle shove the rest of the way up the ramp.

 

The feline promptly stumbled forward the last few steps and then rounded on her fellow pilot, letting loose with a full on annoyed growl. “What is your problem Lieutenant!?”

 

“You. The rest of the squad is already strapped into their birds. Move it newbie, you’re burning our daylight. I don’t want to have to tell you again, and you had better be booted up and ready to fly in two minutes. Now get moving before I sick our squad commander on you.” With that said Dorax then tromped off to board her own star fighter, parked and waiting within the next staging area away from the cargo transport.

 

Honor-Scar just started muttering to herself. “Wonderful. The females in this squad seem to be determined to go all collective terminator on my rear end. One sucker punches me in the stomach and the other has delusions of being a drill sergeant. I hope the males aren’t this touchy feely, ‘cause someone’ll get clawed soon …. “

 

The junior feline pilot ended her litany of complaints with a snort as she programmed the keypad control set into the bulkhead by the entryway to close the lower boarding ramp and upper ramp. The two flat surfaces came together and sealed with a hydraulic hiss, and the keypad went from red to green, indicating that the pressurized seals of the door ramps had kicked on and the two ramps were now closed tight.

 

Wow. If the outer hull of the transport was scuffed and well used, that was nothing compared to the inside of the cockpit. The equipment was well maintained, and in some cases had been replaced with modern parts at least within the last five years, but there was a gaggle of scuffs and dents all over the general area. And was that actual duct tape on the pilot’s chair?

 

A fanged grin blossomed across the tawny furred cat’s face. “This is wonderful! I love this. Nothing is better then these used transports … lots of personality.”

 

Maybe being a general utility pilot wouldn’t be so bad after all? Maybe it was time to get back to her piloting roots to where it all started? Maybe the Lancelot star fighters weren’t the beginning and end all of being a pilot?

 

Jumper settled in at the main control console, and started to go through her internal pre flight preparations. The pre launch programs didn’t take long to boot up and link up to the Camelot control tower or her squad mates, and once she put her visored helmet on and linked up to the flight channel the squad would be using, she was greeted with chatter as the Reapers checked in with main control and each other.

 

The Caitian added her own purred voice to the litany of check ins. “This is Jumper. Hopper J-20 is flight ready, repeat J-20 is ready.”

 

The flight ops manager on duty in the Camelot control room responded quickly and efficiently. “Jumper, this is control. Your designation for this run is Delta one eight five, and your target site has the designation of Whiskey Outpost five eight one. Look for the confirmation code and don’t land your bird until you receive it. You are launching out of rear cargo chute, and you can pick up your Lancelot escorts in Camelot vector lane 2. Repeat, vector lane two. Control out.”

 

Reaper squad leader Lieutenant Commander Darjhan “Swoop” Carson came over the squad communications link up after the flight ops manager had signed off. “Okay squad, let’s do this. Lock and load and be careful.”

 

The pilots acknowledged their readiness to their lead pilot and then began taxiing their assigned vehicles to the designated launch platforms. Honor-Scar entered the necessary codes into her console and then gently tweaked the control joystick she gripped between her paws, sending the Hopper into a slow and lazy hover toward the assigned back launch pad for the utility shuttles and transports. The J-20 rumbled and bucked at the slower speed, but Jumper continually compensated and maneuvered the bird with a practiced paw; the deck hands waved her onward and she gave them an acknowledging wave back through the clear canopy. Within a few minutes, the Hopper was being lowered down onto the lower platform and into the launch chute, and finally shot out into the black.

 

Jumper let loose with a yowl of happiness. There was no better feeling then those first few seconds when you cleared the confines of your home port and flew on out into the black of space.

 

= = = =

The Reaper flight squad easily fell into the standard guard transport formation, with four of the five Lancelot star fighters flying a protective pattern around the troop transport. The fifth Lancelot, piloted by Bull, stayed close to Jumper and took up a position to the right of and slightly behind Jumper’s right wing, while Swoop, Beeline, Streak and Hawk maintained a square guard formation around the two inner flight craft.

 

The feline recognized Bull’s assignment as a classic shadowing maneuver, and commed the Trill pilot on a private channel. “Jumper, Bull. You’re taking this babysitting job seriously. Jumper, over.” There was no recrimination in her tone for once, just a genuine curiosity.

 

Dorax came back over the helmet communications line, and a smile could be heard in her tone. “Jumper, Bull. You got that right. Classic wingman shadow maneuver. Gotta make sure the newbie flies in a straight line. Just behave yourself and don’t do anything stupid and you’ll be fine. Bull out.”

 

Jumper Honor-Scar checked the vector control display inset onto the console dash board once again, and again confirmed that the troop transport that she was currently piloting was still on the correct vector course for the planetary base. The tawny furred feline entered a quick series of commands using another smaller numerical control panel set next to the vector display.

 

The troop transport definitely handled like one of the older class JX models should, which did please her. The young Caitian pilot had grown up around the civilian version of these personnel transports, and even gotten to fly some, ah, shall we say stripped down and borrowed Fleeter versions as well when she ran with the mercenary crews. She had to admit that she was having an enjoyable time learning and dealing with the various intricacies, quirks and splutters that came with the old warhorse.

 

And putting aside the face that her new assignment to the Reapers was as a utility pilot rather then her usual Lancelot pilot posting, she was also guessing that Carson had assigned her to the flying bucket because of her mercenary background with the vehicles. And, considering Bull was shadowing her in a Lancelot fighter, there was probably also an unannounced test going on as well to see how well she piloted, followed the mission parameters, and interacted with the squad over the wireless during the travel time down to the surface of Avalon.

 

That was fine. If they wanted her to be a model officer, Jumper could play the game and make nice and be a team player with the best of them. She understood that proper protocol was needed to maintain a smooth working mission op, but that didn’t mean she had to like all the namby pamby protocols; just give her a good aero vehicle, and she was a happy cat. As long as she could fly and be a jump jock, she would continue to do so anyway that she could.

 

She heard her helmet comm. line click and then spurt with a bit of static, indicating that someone was coming over the shared squad wireless, and the rumbling voice of the squad’s resident Klingon boomed over the line soon after. “Jumper, Hawk. How is the cargo transport handling Jumper?”

 

“Hawk, Jumper. My hopper is doing fine. Delta one eight five might have a few galactic miles on him, but he’ll get the job done. Jumper, over.”

 

The voice of Beeline, the taciturn blue skinned Andorian pilot of the crew, came over the communications line at that point, his melodious voice offering a contrast to Hawk’s deep voice. “He? Most pilots, of all species, refer to a fighter or shuttle as she.”

 

The feline’s purred voice answered the query with a decidedly happy feral edge to it. “Beeline, Jumper. No, this transport is definitely a he, because like all males, One Eight Five revs up early and quick and then dies out before he can hit his, ah, power climax.” Jumper grinned fiercely behind her clear helmet faceplate into the silence that followed her spoken innuendos over the communication lines.

 

Then, squadron leader Swoop came over the squad wireless signal. “Jumper, Swoop. Can you please keep that sort of comment to yourself in the future? I do believe that Hawk is laughing so hard that he’s halfway flipped his Lancelot to the side. Twice. Swoop, over.” His tone held a bit of wry humor in it.

 

Jumper let loose with a yowl of laughter, feeling happy for the first time in a long while. She activated her helmet wireless again. “Swoop, Jumper. Not a problem Boss. Jumper out.”

 

“Squad, Swoop. Okay people, let’s cut down on the chatter. We have a delivery to make and passengers to pick up. Keep the standard formation vector. We’ll be hitting Avalon’s upper atmo in forty. Swoop out.”

 

= = = =

Jumper guided the cargo transport through the outer planetary atmosphere, and was pleased that only one visual display got cranky and fritzed out due to the buffeting winds and rising hull temperature. Quickly, she entered in a recovery program on her console control keyboard with a free paw, and redirected the fritzing display readout to an auxiliary console screen. Burnouts were to be expected on these older models at times, you just had to know how to coax more juice out of the Hoppers when they got cranky. She decelerated her speed a bit, which caused some minor structural groans and protests, but overall the war horse transport responded quickly to her piloting ministrations.

 

The Lancelot fighter escorts all maintained formation around Jumper’s Delta Hopper, adjusting their vector to parallel her own flight adjustments, and soon the Bravo target site came into sensor range. Within twenty seconds, the Bravo site control office contacted the incoming delivery patrol.

 

“Delta one eight five, this is Whiskey Outpost five eight one. We have you and your escorts on our sensors and scanners. Your Avalon approach vector is one two four, and we are streaming the landing co ordinates now to all available pilot wireless signals. Call the ball. Five eight one, over.”

 

Swoops voice answered the official query with yet more pilot jargon and protocol. “Five Eight One, this is One Eight Five. Coordinates received, and we are now on an incoming descent vector into the Whiskey outpost. The landing area clearances and vectors are received, confirmed, and showing on our visual data feeds. Incoming in four minutes, mark. One Eight Five, out.”

 

= = = =

Avalon Planetary Bravo Base

Outer Landing Site

 

The Hopper bucked like a mother when Jumper reverted the thrusters to the required cruising speed in order to land, and due to the general recalcitrance of the aged systems, the landing itself was rather non text book. But, she got herself and the bird down on the ground, and the cargo was still strapped down and intact, and this was all that mattered.

 

The Reapers helped the Bravo base ground crew unload the medical supplies in record time, and would have been on their way back to Camelot if the vice director of the base didn’t have a request: a quick patrol run up the northern coastline. Jumper was standing with the rest of the pilot’s over by a pile of the cargo crates when the director started speaking with squad leader Carson, and her ears perked up as soon as she picked up on the words “raider activity” and “patrol”.

 

The vice director, a middle aged women just beginning to show gray in her dark brown hair, pleaded her case to Swoop.

 

“Lieutenant Commander Carson, we’ve all heard the rumors down here about the skirmishes that the Scorpiad are having to deal with, and this is the sort of situation that attracts unwanted attention from those groups that would love to raid a base out here in the middle of nowhere for parts and supplies. I know the Bravo communications array isn’t exactly on the general galactic maps, but all the same we haven’t had a patrol check out the northern coastline recently. Maybe you and your squad can do a quick run through up the coast, just so we can be sure our security hasn’t been compromised?”

 

Swoop regarded the woman with some sympathy. “Director, I can’t just authorized my entire squad to go hunting up the coast, what I can do is file a request with the Camelot flight ops office regarding the fact that the north coast hasn’t been visited by a patrol run for a while … “

 

Before she realized what she was doing, Jumper was off the cargo crate she had been leaning against and approached her squad lead and the director of the base. This was a chance for her to take the Hopper transport up for some real flying, and see what the old boy could really do. And, if she really wanted to admit it to herself, the young feline wanted to prove to the Reapers that she could be an asset to the squad. No one would ever accuse her of goldbricking.

 

“Excuse me, Commander, Director. I’d be happy to volunteer for a quick recon run up the coast.” Her keen green eyes latched onto Swoop. “It’s really not that big a deal sir; I can run up the coast and be back in thirty.”

 

Swoop eyed the junior pilot. He wasn’t happy with the audacity of the interruption. “I really don’t see the point ... “

 

“Of course not, because you’ve never lived or been stationed on a base or run with a raider crew right Lieutenant? Bases such as Bravo are considered prime targets because they are out of the way, and the coast line can be accessed easily. You get yourself an enterprising mercenary crew, and they set up a temporary staging camp along the coast line, move in, hit the planetary target base, zoom back to the coastline and then take off for parts unknown.”

 

“That’s enough Ensign…”

 

“Swoop.” Bull Dorax stepped forward at that point to intervene in the conversation. “Let the newbie do the patrol. It’s a simple solo hop. She can handle it.”

 

“There’s no way I’m letting her take one of the Lancelot birds. She’s disqualified from flying ‘em.”

 

Jumper lashed her tail at the crack about her grounding from the Lancelots, but Bull placed a hand on her shoulder to forestall any argument, and the cat took the hint to shut up.

 

“Give her a chance Swoop. I’ll vouch for her, and I’ll keep track of her while she’s gone. It’ll be no problem to link up my data padd with the Hopper for tracking, and I can keep a direct communications line open with her anyway. One hour; thirty minute patrol, and then thirty minute return patrol. Then we can haul back to Camelot.”

 

Swoop regarded his wingman for a minute, deciding that she wouldn’t have gotten involved if she didn’t have some faith in the newbie. Bull’s instincts were usually dead on, and that was why she made such a good wingman. He then gave Jumper and good natured smirk before turning his attention back to the patiently waiting base director. “You have yourself a patrol and pilot Ma’am.”

 

= = = =

Avalon, Northern Coastline

Bravo Communications Base, Outer Perimeter Patrol

 

Honor-Scar had gotten the cargo transport shuttle airborne and set off on a vector course up the coastline. She kept a close eye on the small radar display inset on her control console, keeping watch for any sort of funny business. She missed a couple of standard check in intervals with Bull, which wasn’t necessarily a breach in protocol, just damn annoying to the senior pilot on the other end of the wireless signal. The junior pilot was too intent on her coastal search run, just like a - you’ll pardon the expression - cat on the trail of an unsuspecting bird, and the freedom of a solo patrol run was just too damn intoxicating. It was just her, the transport shuttle, and the possible unknown danger of locating a roving pirate band.

 

Besides, Bull Dorax could still track her via the locator beacon, and Jumper was fully prepared for whatever hell she would catch from the senior wingman for any sort of non regulation infractions when she got back. For right now, Jumper followed her calling as a pilot. That was all that mattered. And piloting meant freedom. Life was good.

 

For the next thirty minutes, the young pilot established a patrol pattern that weaved the Hopper transport back and forth, living up to her “Jumper” call sign. She’d fly the coast for a bit of a stretch, and then dart back on the inland side of the coast, blanketing the area and seeing if the tracking sensors picked up anything worth checking into.

 

The sea was a deep azure color and sparkled in the late afternoon sun, offsetting the white beach as well. It was a completely beautiful sight, and completely at odds with the chaos that had visited this quadrant recently. It was bad enough with the looming and constant threat of the Al-Ucard and Eratins rising up against their former masters, now the people of Avalon had an added worry of possible roving bands of mercenaries. And this bit of logic was coming from the former mercenary, which did tend to boggle the mind.

 

Jumper tightened her paw angrily on the control stick. She did get control over her emotions though, berating herself silently that she was a warrior and had to keep it together, and went back to concentrating on her patrol run. There was nothing she could do about the state of rapidly deteriorating political affairs within the Gamma quadrant except do her job and offer assistance where she could.

 

Eventually, she ran out of coastline, and the feline was treated to an endless view of the vast blue of the ocean.

 

“I do have to say, this planet is beautiful.”

 

She set the transport shuttle to hover for five minutes, just admiring the view out of the cockpit and reflecting for a bit. Sometimes, when she got into these deep thinking moods, the darkness would creep up on her and threaten to overtake her. Not today though. Not while she was doing what she loved the most.

 

Finally, the Caitian re-tuned the thrusters and swung the protesting transport craft around to start the haul back to the base site. She spoke into her internal helmet communicator, which was set to the check in channel. “Bull, Jumper. I am coming back home on an inbound vector. Eee Tee A is thirty minutes. No visual sign of any hostiles. Jumper over.”

 

Bull Dorax’s strong yet feminine voice crackled back a moment later. “Jumper, Bull. About time you checked in. Get your furry rear end back here. Now.”

 

“Aye sir. Vector inbound in thirty. Jumper out.”

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