Hangin Out on a Hornet Time: It's All Relative

[Crash Calestorm 0]

02:00 AM

2259.365

 

They had guests due in a few hours. She should be sleeping, should ask the CMO for something to make her sleep. But she was way too wired.

 

The hanger bay was quiet, even for the third shift. Due to the...unique situation, Calestorm and Commander Wesley had ordered a halt to all practice flight runs and fighter patrols; the birds were grounded until further notice. God forbid any of the future Starfleeters got jumpy and took a pot shot at her pilots, or the fighters got caught in the fall out from that shockwave that had whooshed across the Romulus sector.

 

Crash had retreated to the main flight deck, and sat on the wing of a random Hornet starfighter. Her own Hornet, lucky number 20, was parked a short distance away in a berth. She just wasn’t feeling all that lucky.

 

Boots dangling off the side of the wing, she divided her time between day dreaming, observing the skeleton crew of flight mechanics going about their work, and making notations for the Honor Guard on a data slate. The middle aged officer looked for all the worlds like a sulking teen forced to do homework.

 

She felt a shift, but didn’t glance behind her to see who it was.

 

An NCO with white hair in a crew cut settled in beside her, legs also dangling off the side of the wing. He wore the collar tabs of a mechanic specialty, services red shoulder piping on a navy blue jumpsuit . CWO-5 Killian had a good twenty years on Crash, in his mid seventies give or take; he had retired and then re-enlisted when duty again called his name.

 

“First, you do that Navy thing. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you actually go and do OCS training. And then you transfer from the Fighter Corps for,” he mock shuddered, “Command. And what the hell is up with that gold shirt? What, San Francisco Command wants y’all to be a walkin’ target?”

 

Cale winged a long suffering, though playful, look at him. “I’m a Captain, not a Tailor. I wanted Command. As for ‘That Navy Thing’, you know the Marine’s tossed me out,” she punctuated that statement with a good natured grin, “and anyway, Kathy and Jon went Navy before me. Maybe you’ll have better luck with the later generation, eh?”

 

He snorted and then looked at her with eyes the same color as hers. “What’s up Captain?”

 

She was silent, glancing down at the data slate; Killian nudged her with a shoulder.

 

“Well, we’ve got some issues. Ship got nailed with some sort of…storm. Years got all screwed up. Now we’re not where were supposed to be…not too sure about getting back either. My SCI Geeks and ENG Grease Monkeys are workin’ out theories and such…”

 

“You scared?”

 

“Yessir.”

 

He continued to gaze at her, eyes bright and receptive.

 

“...if ah don’t know the score ah can’t protect my people.”

 

“Mm hm.”

 

“We’re maintaining position….but I just wanna hop in this fighter and go on a scouting run, see what’s out there, see for myself, make a decision.”

 

“You’ll find your way. You’ll lead. You always do.”

 

Captain Calestorm stayed quiet, her focus going to a point on the scuffed deck that only she could see. When she came back to herself, Killian was gone.

 

In a whisper, Cale simply said, “Thank you.”