Flash the Tail Lights

[Crash Calestorm 0]

The following log takes place during our week long TBS, just prior to the 08.22.11 Sim…

 

It had been just over three days since the SS Imperious, formerly known as the USS Washington Crossing, had launched out from Earth sector. Operation: Whiteout was officially on record as not officially existing, and the thirty member crew – a combination of Captain Calestorm’s Border Patrol people and Commander JoNs’s SEAL* commando volunteers – were settling into their new joint assignment.

 

There’d been a few turf ‘issues’ among the more boisterous SEAL and BP officers per the usual lower decks rumors, but the captain hadn’t needed to bounce any heads together. Yet.

 

The Imperious was making good progress, heading further into the perimeter sectors of the Outlands. The commercial cargo traffic had thinned out, with the ships and travelers less and less civilian, more professional mercenary. Word on the wireless had that the place to be for prospective work was a dive called J’bbas Palace on some godforsaken world known as T’tooine. This planet was their current destination, though Calestorm had the Nav and Helm officers taking the long route.

 

She wanted to cruise around and canvas the surrounding quadrants, flash the tail lights, get the name out there without causing any trouble. New merc crew on the scene, here we are in all our glory, check out our bad ass ship. And the captain had to admit the Almeida class vessel looked pretty bad ass, especially with the current mission configuration. Hire us already!

 

As for the still MIA Commander Wesley? Calestorm kept vacillating between outright worry and ‘Scooter better have a damn good explanation for the disappearing act’. In the interim, K. Vacer ‘Taboo Cat’ JoNs had taken over as the MXO*.

 

Crash (or ‘Marie Lightwind’ as per her undercover dossier) was currently snooping in the converted hanger deck, making a pre-flight check on the four F-15 Eagles parked neatly in the deck slots.

 

Just as the crew had adopted disguises, the weapons and starfighters and just about every other piece of external and internal equipment on the ship had been reconfigured to look more mercenary rather then Starfleet: a rough, unfinished, well used sort of look.

 

She stooped to check a hard point plasma missile mount on the last F-15, her strong fingers deftly roving over the fasteners and fail safe ejectors. Calestorm then turned her attention to the wing and the maneuvering flaps, making her way back towards the rear exhaust manifolds. She dropped down, doing a crouched duck walk to eyeball the under carriage.

 

In addition to the F-15s, there were two SAR* shuttles that could double as transport, as well as a ground transport Hover Mule for hauling cargo over terrain.

 

The captain was old school, and felt better having fighters around. Old habits die hard: you could take the pilot out of the squad, but you couldn’t take the pilot out of the officer. Ship to ship combat was one thing, but most starships weren’t built for or capable of tight maneuvers. Even the Washington Crossing, more maneuverable then the frigate class based ‘Creek, had its limits as a heavy assault commando ship. The starfighter’s and the other vehicles evened out the playing field for assignment specific operations.

 

She straightened, hissing trough her teeth as her back protested.

 

Her body might balk at times, but the ears were still pretty good; she heard the clicking of claws on the deck plates before her gaze hawked onto who they belonged to. Ensign ‘Jumper’ Honor-Scar zoomed into view, down on all four paws per her usual method of transport. As the Caitian feline came closer to the Human, she went upright on her hind paws and began to speak.

 

“Hey Captain! Commander JoNs said you were down here. Nice birds; I haven’t flown the F-15’s since Academy tactics. How’d you manage to grab ‘em?” The felinoid indicated the fighter craft with a tip of her head.

 

The captain smiled at the shorter felinoid, who had dyed her golden fur a deep brown and wore standard civilian mercenary clothing per the undercover assignment. Honor-Scar was a handful, but the kid was growing on Crash. Hell of a pilot with the reflexes.

 

“Let’s say I called in some favors Jumper. And, I want to thank you for volunteering for this mission; your merc knowledge’ll come in handy.”

 

“Not a problem Captain. I already have some calls out to legitimate contacts that my family has dealt with. If there’s any new information on the Black Kris, they’ll let me know.”

 

“Good. And how are our rookie pilots settling in?”

 

“Well, Kea hasn’t tried to eat me, and no one has shot Morgan out an airlock as far as I can tell.”

 

Calestorm fought down a smile with some effort; the Cat could have a wicked sense of humor, and a flip tongue. But she was funny. Not that the captain could really let on how she felt.

 

“Ensign.” The tone held warning.

 

Jumper waved her fore paws frantically. “Sorry Sir. Ensign Kea and Marine Pilot Officer Morgan are cleared and ready to pull CAP* duty.”

 

“Good. Now what about you? How are you and Commander JoNs getting on?”

 

JoNs and Honor-Scar were cousins, and like a lot of families, the two didn’t see eye to eye.

 

Jumper’s section of the family worked as mercenaries. Thankfully though, the Honor-Scar’s were the good guys. From what Cale had learned from her interactions with the young pilot, Jumper had grown up a little rough around the edges but she had a good heart. The potential was there, and with time and guidance (read: gentle boot to the head), she might mature into a good officer.

 

In contrast, ‘Taboo Cat’ JoNs had grown up with the Starfleet Silver Spoon in her paw. Calestorm knew the Cait could take care of herself and was capable of command, but had that typical prissified cat attitude (read: swift boot to the head).

 

“We got caught up with one another on some family stuff. It went pretty well, considering.”

 

Cale gave a satisfied nod, a quick jerk of her chin. “Good. Now, it’s about time we got some birds out in the black to flank the Imperious, let the quadrant know we mean business.” She consciously used the mercenary designation. “We’re launching a patrol in one hour. I’ll be heading out with you.”

 

The Cait balked, her tail starting to lash excitedly. “Look sir, um, are you sure you want to come on the CAP? It’s pretty dangerous out this way. You get all kinds of rogue merc crews and pirates, and they just don’t care. They’ll blow you out of the cockpit without thinking twice and tractor what remains of a fighter - or a larger ship - for straight salvage and easy credits.”

 

It was probably the nicest thing the kid had said to Calestorm since the two had knocked heads those weeks back. Literally. She smiled at the junior officer. “With Commander Wesley MIA, we’re short one qualified pilot. Last I checked, my vacuum rider qualifications are good to go.”

 

“Yes Sir. I know your cleared. I just...”

 

The smile dropped. “Ensign.”

 

The tail sagged. “Sorry Captain.”

 

“Contact Ensign Kea. Tell her to get down here so we can start flight prep. We’ll send out three of the four birds - you, myself, Kea. Use undercover names as assigned over the wireless. Mr. Morgan won’t be joining us for this first run.”

 

“Uh, okay. Sir?” The felinoid flipped an ear back, unsure. “He cleared on the F-15’s according to his service profile…seemed pretty eager to get out and about...”

 

Crash flashed a devil may care smile that showed teeth and made her look as feral as the Cait. “....last I saw him, he was a bit under the weather. Mr. Morgan has any issues with being taken off the flight rotation roster, you tell him to come to me.”

 

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SEAL - Sea, Air & Land

MXO - Mission Executive Officer

SAR - Search & Rescue

CAP - Combat Air Patrol