Chapter Text
"Exordium 1 - From Adean Straits"
Straits of Adea, Central Usean Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ)
. . .
THIS WAS HOW HE MET REX.
The Endurance crew pulled a kid-pilot from the sea. They didn't know it yet, but they were about to lose an Ace.
. . .
The aero forces. Fighter jets. All of it was burning. The land, and the sea.
Explosions. Endless ringing. No time to schedule a last-minute life insurance policy.
The fire and screaming were in his head all the way down, falling into unforgiving, shark-infested waters. He would have a tomb constructed from the whipping tatters of his shredded parachute and his crapped cockpit chair. His burial would be a shallow seabed left to rust and crustaceans. He would…
He was dead, right?
The ringing continued, Whiz—or Kid—depending on who you talked to about the young FCU fighter pilot, could not make heads-or-tails or up-or-down in the blind noise of his rattled mind.
He felt the freeze of seawater, the distortion of going under. Splashing of something violent, maybe he was eaten alive?
This was death, then what would be his final words? Unspoken, unheard, but screamed into the hostile universe. ‘Screw the Sotoans! Screw this war!’
“Hey, easy now…”
A soft, breathless voice cut through the ringing, with a chorus of rolling sea waves. He was being rocked—not gently, the sea was still an unforgiving mistress.
A hand, his hand, rested over his face to hide against the beating sun above. It cut through the storm clouds, leaving behind a shattered sky of smoke and ozone from fires afar. The land—his home, engulfed in war. Too bad the current was heading in the other direction. Far out to sea…
“Hey, take a look. What a sight to behold... It’s all over.” Looking back, Whiz saw what his companion meant. “The last lands of the FCU—the Federation of Central Usea—they’re going up in flames.”
Whiz winced. Jenkins’s remark was insensitive at a time like this, but after hours stuck in a vortex pool, he deserved a little moment to blow off steam instead of wondering how to swim and not get pulled under, or eaten. He was yelling his voice hoarse about an hour ago still.
How did they get here? Well, it wasn’t the first time Whiz was shot down.
The past memory was still crystal at the surface of his mind. The shoot down. The burning parachute. Almost drowning, being pulled from the water… That was the first time.
For the present incident, it was Jenkins and Whiz on their own. Shot down by Sotoan patrol aircraft off the coast while trying to bulrush out of their Air Force base by escaping Black Hawk transport helicopter. Don’t mind that Whiz lacked renewed flight credentials on helicopters. Didn’t matter now.
After all, the bird was a black-smudged toast box in the water about two football fields away. Today was turning into a hellish fate by the second. It was all a terrible, waking nightmare. Jenkins got their emergency dinghy out, then pulled Whiz from the water. That’s how… Right, Whiz caught Jenkins mid-monologue.
“—In the three months since the war started, I’ve flown out on choppers five times. It’s been retreat after retreat…”
Did the man ever stop to breath?
“I crash landed on my fourth flight. And there goes my fifth flight.” Jenkins continued while Whiz’s eyes trailed back to the downed chopper, half-submerged but still afloat. Any moment, she would finally sink into the murky shallows.
“So this God-forsaken patch of water’s gonna be our grave, huh? Whatever happened to our legendary ace pilot ‘Wings’…”
The pilot of the two was about ready to kick his fellow survivor for being desperately chatty. Ultimately, Whiz didn’t have to as a flock of gulls soared by, chased in terror by the whipping of helicopter blades.
“Wow! W-Well, I’ll be damned!” Jenkins exclaimed and Whiz looked up, watching the sudden blur of orange-and-white emergency markings on a UH-60J Sea Hawk pararescue helicopter whip by. Great, this really was deja vu. How many times was Whiz pulled from the sea now? Was this even the first time?
One Heli-hawk to the next. But the helicopter had friendly FCU flight markers. That was good.
As the helicopter closed in, Jenkins tried to rise up, despite the wobble in their low-air, yellow lifeboat. He proclaimed, “So what will it be? Should we try our luck once more? Or just give it up right here?”
Whiz didn’t need to say anything. His face grew a jubilant grin, caught in a half-eye-roll against the spray of kicked-up salt spray. The Sea Hawk’s air crew was working on a rescue tug line from the cargo bay door. Jenkins spoke for them both anyway.
“Guess there’s not much of a choice!”
Jenkins grabbed Whiz’s gloved arm, hauling him up. Their arms clutched on for dear life against the waves and chopper’s jet wash. They really made it!
. . .
The two-hour flight back to wherever the rescue helicopter came from was mostly silent. Today was almost Halloween—October 19th, 2029. 1429 Hours, FCU Military Standard Time.
A oxygen-stealing, thunderous turbine and turboprops ate any energy left to chat. The crew chief kept glancing at the rescued pair like they might jump him at any moment.
The pilot and co-pilot kept chattering to themselves on a separate radio channel, pointing and glancing at their flight instruments, especially the radar and fuel gauge. Their behavior was a familiar cadence, but for Whiz, a hazardously-experienced helicopter pilot too—their worry about enemies and fuel left a stinging emptiness in his stomach.
Would they be shot down again out here over the open ocean? Would they end up where they started all over again.
A prayer didn’t seem appropriate in a time like this, like Whiz might jinx the whole affair. Whether it be the mysterious works of his own God or that of the Sotoans, wherever they were headed, he hoped it was an improvement over the drowning grave he dodged once before.
The crew chief perked up, pointing to a dark metal speck leaving a mile-long, white wake behind it on the rolling sea. Flat topped, and a single control tower along the starboard side. An aircraft carrier!
“There’s our Old Lady! Home sweet home!”
She was certainly old. Gray steel, none of the modern century’s blended aluminum fixtures. She still had big-caliber deck guns, blending the notion between carrier and aviation cruiser. Very few planes and helicopters dotted the flight deck. None of the planes were ready to leap off the steam catapults, but flight crew ran about in their bright jerseys and weathered workmen dungarees like busy worker bees.
After a single pass of the pilots finding the right wind fixture to ride-and-land on, the helicopter came down on the center of the flight deck with an aggressive thump and short screech of their rubber tires. Three sailors in dark blue command staff uniforms were waiting, not at attention, but stock-still like they were trying to be professional in a hurry. A medical doctor was with them.
As the helicopter’s turbo props began to cycle down and the pilots shuttered the engines, the welcome party shifted forward to meet the new arrivals by the sliding door. The leading woman, a caramel-skinned woman with a no-nonsense stare met the crew chief first. She held her cap and greeted as the orange-jump suited man handed her a clipboard.
“We rescued two stranded survivors. A mechanic and a pilot.”
“Only two?” Maybe the naval officer was looking for someone, or something more. She almost sounded disappointed. “The pilot and a passenger?”
“Correct,” the crew chief confirmed. He retreated a couple steps allowing Whiz to step forward and Major Jenkins fell in on the left. Behind them, the helicopter crew vacated their seats as a flight crew buggy rolled up with its tow wrench.
A quick exchange of salutes substituted the quiet flutter from seeing friendly faces within Whiz’s heart. Above them, he could just make out the darkened colors of the black-and-white FCU flag with its hexagon formation of unified stars.
“First of all, thank you for joining us.” She kept one hand affixed to her brim, another skimmed the clipboard as if sizing up the rescue results. Her faced bobbed up and down between Whiz and Jenkins, assessing the haphazard report beneath her fingers.
Major Jenkins leaned forward, asking first and eyes curious toward the paper. “Are you the XO?”
She didn’t answer. “You’re… Major Jenkins? Maintenance Officer?”
The woman's uniform breast-stitch did say “Jessica Pike, Captain (XO)” but she might be subordinate to a Rear Admiral or higher. The ball cap declared her vessel in gold lettering, FCU Endurance (CV-15). It was a name-appropriate for surviving a lighting war through the mainland. Enduring still, against all odds and outcomes.
“Right, I’m with the Air Force.”
She shook her head, taking a step forward as if to grab and settle the Major. “Wow. There are no Air Force bases left for you to do your magic. Army, Navy, Marines, Police, Fire departments, even civilian air…”
Captain Pike’s words slowed as if to let the message rest, catch her breath, or simply to swallow the heavy reality pill herself. It was a damning conclusion.
“The only place FCU aircraft can launch and land is here.”
The weight of her comments didn’t seem to phase Jenkins, there was even a slight chuckle in his quick rely. “Guess I’ll be tinkering with naval aircraft then? So, where’s the hangar?”
The doctor seem to pause at that, raising a hand to speak but the Captain beat her to it.
“Show him where to go.” She added as he and one of the assistant officers began to walk in another direction. “You’ll start feeling sea sick, Fly-Man. Take some time to rest after you’re situated.”
“Where would that be, ma’am?” Jenkins paused.
“In the Doc’s Med Bay, of course. We'd prefer you alive. We’ll get you properly-assigned once the vertigo passes.”
The air force officer paused with an affirming hum, saluted once more and went off.
Jenkins shot Whiz another look before vanishing into the crowding flight deck crew. The XO didn’t salute back. Whiz twitched his lip whiskers, awkwardly feeling the other officers’ eyes still locked on him.
“So. Yes, we’re critically undermanned on this ship.” Pike muttered, eyes locking on Whiz now. “I don’t know what happened to your unit or the circumstances you come from, but I need pilots. Doc will keep you under watch before I let you back on an aircraft.”
Said doctor was quick to step up, a younger woman with a haphazard tied bun. Without an extra word, she was grabbing—gently—at Whiz’s forehead and bringing a thin flashlight to his eyes.
“Crew said you just regained consciousness? If there are cerebral issues, a detailed check is in order.” The flashlight flickered, blinding, left-to-right and back-to-back again. Everywhere it went, Whiz saw gray.
Whiz gave the barest nod back. “Of course. Sure…”
The doctor stepped back, brisk enough. The faint smell of old coffee grounds quickly vanished as she retreated. That assessment seemed way too fast. Somehow, she made it work. “I can’t sign off on piloting until that’s done.”
“Then he’s a navigator. Fainting won’t be a death sentence at least.”
“Ma’am,” Doc growled back. “Fainting could be a death sentence. This pilot literally just got out of a sea crash.”
“Then what is your recommendation, Doctor?”
She waved her hand a bit. “Put him with a squadron if you like. No flying until I approve. Then some simulation time, give him 12 hours sleep and some food first. If he’s still upright after that, you can have him try his luck as a back-seater.”
Pike hummed in acceptance. “Alright, back inside then. Like I said, we’re critically undermanned on this ship. Ensign, give him the helmet.”
Before Whiz could even recognize it, a gray-hefty weight was dropped into his hands by a light basketball toss. An older style HGU-68/P aircrew helmet. It said as much on the side in little, dark lettering—an old, familiar face but not one of the old Air Force’s preference.
“We’ll get you some fighter memorabilia later. Today, you rest.” Captain Pike continued, waving an arm and guiding her welcome party and Pike along into the labyrinth of the FCU Endurance.
The ocean winds were gone in a moment. The dark, wet-smelling halls of an ancient warship took over. Yellow, incandescent lights glowed above. Whiz blinked. He was in a belly of a beast, loud clangs of boots and machinery echoing through the long halls.
Hold on, did they just make him a Navy fighter pilot? Just like that?