First Launch

From TFC Galactopedia

Lieutenant (j.g.) Chaser McLoude sighed and flexed his grip around the controls of his StarHawk F.Mk I interceptor fighter as it sat behind Lieutenant Commander S’lonn’s own interceptor as the commander of the VF-33rd “Starfighters” squadron waited for launch. After four years at the Academy, and two months of holodeck training, the big Terran Akita/malamute, who had earned the call sign “Goliath” by just barely fitting into the cockpit, was finally going to participate in his first full out launch and exercise from the carrier USS Oriskany. To be honest, he was nervous.

It wasn’t flying a high performance craft in the hard vacuum of space that made him nervous. He had done that hundreds of times with the Academy trainers after helping to re-form the Flight Demonstration Team and leading it after its demise with Cadet Albert’s death had caused the team, once known as Nova Squadron, a suspension. There he had flown dangerous maneuvers, in space, anything was dangerous if you did it wrong, but had done so with a tight eye on his fellow teammates and a strict eye towards as much safety that he could impose without ruining the pilots edge. He had no want to repeat Locarno’s mistake of illicit and overly dangerous maneuvers. He was a risk taker, but, only if he could stake the odds a bit in his favor.

No, what made him nervous was this would be his first launch from a starship. The Oriskany had recently been re-christened from her original Ambassador-class linage to a ‘light’ carrier that carried a starwing of one hundred and twenty-five small craft. She was the pride of the fleet at the moment, the first of a new breed of ships specially designed to carry fighters into battle. Chaser had read much of his own homeworld’s rich naval aviation history that had been fairly abandoned after the Third World War and found the challenge of that sort of occupation enticing. Enticing and for the first time since entering the flight training program apprehensive as he saw the drive flares of other fighters as they flew off the deck and out of the Oriskany’s flight deck.

“Starfighter 321, this is Vulture’s row, you are next in line on catapult two after Starfighter 300,” Chaser heard the deck control officer call out as S’lonn’s StarHawk disappeared behind the cryogenically and dampening field-protected blast deflector, heat shimmers appearing as the Oriskany’s Life Support system tried to dissipate the access heat being generated by all the starfighters’ impulse drives. He only caught a bare glimpse of his Squadron Commander’s fighter as it screamed down the deck, the roar of its impulse engines penetrating his sealed cockpit as a faint rumble.

Then, it was his turn, the blast deflector lowered, frost covered and the dampening field shimmered as he maneuvered his StarHawk at the direction of the yellow-shirted crewman as others he knew, were working below his fighter to connect it to the magnetic catapult. He felt the barest of thumps as the yellow-shirt turned and nodded to Chaser, giving him two thumbs up as he knew the blast deflector was once again deploying behind his StarHawk. Chaser nodded, gave a thumbs up, and, in something that had not been a part of Starfleet in some time, saluted the yellow shirt and braced himself against his ejector-seat.

The yellow-shirt nodded, knelt to the deck and pointed towards the atmospheric containment field. With that Chaser felt as if a giant hand shoved him into his ejection seat and the deck confines of the Oriskany fell away in the blink of an eye to be replaced by the blackness of space pinpricked by points of light. “Starfighter 321! Good shot! Good shot!!!” Chaser called in a strained, excited voice of a dog that still had adrenaline pumping heavily through his system from the launch.

“Lieutenant McLoude,” that was the voice of S’lonn their Vulcan Bat commander. S’lonn was the only one who never called any of the pilots by their call signs, and even tried to discourage the use of one for himself even though the squadron had taken to affectionately calling the ninety year old Vulcan “Pappy,” though never to his snout, and never hopefully, within his keen earshot. “Join up with me, come left thirty degrees, mark ten positive, we play the defenders today, the VFA-125th will be our opposition.”

“Roger that Commander, coming left to your wing,” Chaser announced as he manipulated his HOTAS controls, another re-emergence from old aviation design, so that the VFA-125th “Black Knights” flying the Boyington FS.Mk I would not be able to tune in on his coms. Now he thought, it was time to fight…