Front Line

[GSgt Mike Hefner 0]

Snoop Leader Duty Log 091020

GSgt Mike Hefner, SFMC

139th Marine Battalion

USS Agincourt - Front Line

 

"Come on, boys. Let's have another round."

 

Lt Caine's murmur from Gamma's helm jerked Mike Hefner back quite a few years, but he kept his concentration on the tactical console. Caine had a helluva lot more confidence in the ship than Hef did as she maneuvered it to attack position. A low whistle escaped his lips and he threw a glance at Petros, monitoring OPS, as the ship responded. Rocky tossed his head to the side and gave a click through his teeth, apparently as amazed as Mike. Hefner had flown his share of craft in his time, but flying a battered Prometheus with a damaged nacelle strut seemed more like maneuvering the barn from a detached tack shed.

 

Mike Hefner's introduction to aviation came in the form of paper airplanes tipped with spit wads and aimed at his brother's head from behind the hay mow door. By the age of six he'd graduated to Betsy, his prize winged cardboard carton perched precariously on the corner of the corral fence. Armed with his live oak acorn loaded slingshot, the sturdy airship was poised to repel all intruders and save the universe if necessary.

 

At seven Mike was invited to ride shotgun (officially called the observer) in Daide Walker's tail-dragger Stinson L-5 Sentinel, a pristine vintage plane he kept in a specially built shed on property adjacent to the Hefner's. It'd been passed down from his grandpappy's grandpappy's grandpappy, or some such - Mike didn't know how far back. All Mike knew at the time was that you took better care of it than anything else because it was special, it was old, and it could fly - the most important part being the last. From the very first flight he was hooked, but it took him several more years to grow tall enough to reach the controls for the flaps and rudder. Those were long growing years indeed. Until then he and neighbor Daide flew the fence line, occasionally hopped to the old airstrip outside Lubbock, and buzzed the Hefner homestead, bringing Mike's mom outside. She'd wave her apron and shout frantically that the cow would stop giving or the hens stop laying, but both Mike and Daide knew it scared her to death. They'd wave and feign understanding, then bank towards the Walker airstrip a mile away, waiting until they were well out of range before laughing.

 

After Marine basic, Mike's facility with aircraft became obvious to the Corps. He trained in several atmospheric craft but when it came to piloting shuttles and taking helm, he was shackled. In space there was no sound but engine. No red-tail darted across your path, no concrete compass led you home, no wind whoosh forced your head to tilt to hear. Lucky for him there were plenty of pilots, but not many wanted ground combat, so he transferred and never looked back.

 

In the space of a few seconds the memory flashed by, and it struck him as ironic to the nth degree that he was getting his fill of combat not on the ground but in a wounded Prometheus. Rocky's sharp nod indicated OPS was green; no worries there. Mike's console mirrored the main bridge; he'd stand by in case and watch the tactical readout on Gamma's main viewscreen.

 

"Another round it is, Ma'am."