Chapter 13

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I taught my last class that afternoon. These cadets weren't quite ready, but we needed them on active duty as soon as possible. That meant I was going to have to start my duties as Commanding Officer of the NightHawks, and would be too busy to teach. <Thank God,> I thought. <I was running out of things to say to those people. I mean, there's only so much one can teach about being quick-witted.>When I got back to my office, there was a packet of papers waiting for me. It was sealed and official, and it was full of transfer chits. It was a collection of dossiers on every person who had been assigned to the Nighthawks, and I was going to have to read all two hundred fifteen of them by 1800 hours tonight. <This is not going to be pleasant.>At 1756 hours, I dropped the last of the dossiers and nearly spilled my coffee with the heavy packet. I groaned as I leaned back against my chair and stretched the kinks out of my back. <They've made 30 years of technological progress in the last nine years and they still haven't been able to design a comfortable chair.> After reading through about half of the assignments, I began to notice a continuing trend: One particular person was responsible for every single transfer in this pile... Lieutenant Thallin Braywater. <I'll get you for this, Thallin.>He even had the audacity to transfer Lieutenant Izabelle Fate to my squadron. That wouldn't be so bad, since I'd be able to keep an eye on her, but he also had put her on special assignment to his experiment, so she wouldn't be available for patrols, and she wasn't going to be here today, either. Thallin was dangling her under my nose, but not letting me get at her. <He's doing this just to piss me off. I know it.>I listened to the voices of the men in the lounge next to my office. Especially for the familiar voices that should be there. David Marshall, one of the students from my class, had been assigned to my squadron. He was obviously quite talented, but he wasn't quite the leadership type. His dossier reflected that, in a way. 

The dossier said he was very intelligent, creative, and that he adapts well to adverse situations. <Why the hell did they put him in my class, then? He didn't seem to need my teaching much.> It went on to say that he had had previous military experience, but had been removed from flight training after a serious accident resulted in heavy civilian casualties. The accident was officially known as the Cleveland Saint Ignacious Incident. <David Marshall... hmmm. Not that David Marshall?> However, he had made up for his mistake, according to military eyes, on Macross Island when he acquired a downed Veritech and managed to destroy an officer's pod and a battle pod on his own, his actions had landed him a promotion, too. The original pilot, a Christina Leeds, had taken a mortal wound from shrapnel flying through the cockpit and had bled to death trying to land it. His piloting skills were remarkable, although his marksmanship was lacking. The dossier also showed another problem, besides the incident: There were numerous comments throughout the dossier on his anti-social behaviour, there was even one count of insubordination, and, though the report didn't mention it explicitly, it was obvious that he had a definite aversion to command responsibility. 

All in all, I'd have said he was a good kid, except that he was a year older than I was. I also wouldn't want him in charge of his own flight wing, nor would I want him in mine. So I decided to place him under Sergeant Jack Malone. 

Jack Malone, according to his dossier, was an exceptional pilot with a great showing of talent and skill, with reasonable leadership abilities. It also said he was a braggart and a show-off. He, unlike all the other pilots in my squadron, was already a Veritech pilot, so he had practical combat experience. I had also seen him in action, when he had rescued my Veritech in the previous day's battle. He was good, yes. The best I had. But he was also a real asshole. 

I quickly changed into a clean uniform and fixed my hair. I had to look nice for my men. Once I felt that I was suitable, I went to my door, opened it, and, doing my best to hide the fatigue in my voice, called out, "Malone, Sergeant Malone. Come into my office please." I wanted to talk to him first and get it out of the way. 

When he sauntered through my door, though, I wished that I hadn't. He was wearing a big grin and was chewing on a half finished cigarette. "Hello there, Lieutenant," he said, throwing a half-assed salute in my direction. Then he stepped the rest of the way into my office and closed the door with his foot. 

"Good evening, Sergeant Malone," I replied crisply. I stood up as straight as I could, trying to even out our heights a little bit, but he was still a few inches taller. "I have something important to tell you," I continued, "so I would appreciate it if you would give me your attention." 

"Sure. You got it." He said, obviously either missing or ignoring my cue. In fact, he even shifted his weight so that he was leaning against the door. 

I took a deep breath and said, "I am going to be testing the abilities of every member of this squadron, and have made my initial placement decisions based upon talent and experience. And, because of your flight experience, I am putting you in charge of Gamma Wing." 

He grinned at me and said, "Thanks, Sweets. That's mighty nice of you. I suppose this is the first part of my reward for saving your life yesterday, isn't it?" 

I glared at him, "Saving my life? Yes, your assistance yesterday was taken into account when I made my decision." 

"When do you want to give me the second part? Say, tonight? Nine o'clock? You know where my barracks are, right?" 

"SERGEANT!" I yelled, fury in my eyes. He started and stood up from the wall. Calmly, I said, "I don't know where you get such ideas from, but they are not correct, and they are not suitable in a military environment. Is that understood?" 

He looked surprised, then his eyes softened and his grin came back. "Of course. How 'bout tomorrow night, then?" 

I fumed, counting to myself... <One... Two... Three... He's laughing at me. I can see it in his eyes.> "Alright, Sergeant. I've had enough with you..." I paused, then yelled, drill sergeant style: "STAND UP STRAIGHT, you sonovabitch! I'm going to pound this into your thick little skull until you get it as straight as your back: I am in charge! I am your commanding officer! You have no idea what I can do to you if you disobey my orders! You don't want to know what I can do to you! But I'm going to give you a little taste of what I can do to you. I am ordering you to get acquainted with all members of your wing by getting them ready for duty. First, you're going to show them to room 112B, in the new barracks, which they will be sharing. Then you're to take them to the Prometheus to get them assigned to Veritechs. Once that is taken care of, you will take them to hangar deck 15C, where our planes will be kept. Our primary technician, Tom Charter, will take care of all three of you from there. Once all that is taken care of, I want you to bring them back here. Of course, afterwards, you are quite free to go to the mess hall and spend the rest of the evening peeling potatoes!" 

He had been standing straight as a board, looking taller than ever, and, for a brief moment while I was screaming at him, I actually saw fear in his eyes. Now, however, he was obviously quite upset. He was squeezing his hands into fists, flexing his arms, and glaring at me over his cheeks. I grabbed a packet of paperwork from my desk and handed it to him, saying, "These are the berthing assignments for your wing. You are staying in the squadron bunk room for a week, because I don't want to let you out of my sight, as much as it pains me. Now, if you would please open my door." When he slammed the door open, it was all I could do to keep from screaming, "Marshall, David, and Martuchi, Tony. GET IN HERE!" I had to count to twenty as I forced myself to sit in my chair. 

Marshall and Martuchi came in quickly. They both walked up to my desk and saluted crisply, perfectly at attention. <Ah, this is more like it. Unlike Mr. Congeniality over here,> I thought, wanting to rip his head off and throw the rest of him into space. 

Tony Martuchi was tall and gangly, just like his dossier had said. His dossier had also said he would make an excellent technician, but we needed pilots more than we needed technicians. His uniform was immaculately clean and looked freshly ironed, which was the complete opposite of Marshall's uniform. It looked as if he had been sleeping in it, and Marshall, himself, looked as though he had just crawled out of bed. <Ah well. It's been a hard day for all of us.>I calmed myself as best I could and said, "Welcome to the Nighthawks, gentlemen." 

They both replied, "Thank you, Sir!" in unison. 

"I wish I had more time to spend talking with each of you, but things have been going badly around here, they're getting worse, and I'm running short on time." <I also want to get this asshole out of my office.> Indicating the asshole, I continued, "This is Sergeant Jack Malone, and he's in charge of Gamma Wing. I'm placing you both under his command. Understand?" 

Again, in unison, "Yes, Sir!" <How do they do that? Rehearsal? Did someone teach a class on that?>I continued, "Good. Now, he's going to show both of you your quarters, and then take you both down to the prometheus for your Veritech assignments." Then I turned to the Sergeant, "I want them back here by eighteen hundred hours." 

He clipped a "Yes, Sir." 

"Good. You'd better get going, there's a lot to be accomplished today," I said with a salute. All three of them returned it. "Oh, and Sergeant Malone? Don't forget what I said to you." 

He said, "I won't, Sir," and headed for the door with Marshall and Martuchi in tow. Then I remembered something important about David Marshall and called him back. <My memory is just nuts today.>He stopped at the door, "Yes, Sir?" 

"I want to speak to you later tonight. About your actions on Macross Island." I smiled, feeling tired, and continued, "Around nineteen hundred hours. In this office." 

He replied, "Yes Sir." before he turned and stepped out. 

"Only twenty-three more pilots to go... Whoopee!" I mumbled, then called, "Vincent, Lance, and Zance, Timothy, and Gunn, Tack, please come in here." 

In moments, they were all standing before my desk, saluting... 

Forward to Chapter 14.
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