Fiction fiction; Chapter II

[ToolMan]

Coordinated Efforts

She moved her hand in and out through the blue transparency of the terminal as rapidly as she could, placing the ammunition in a brown box about the size of a shoe-box. The tenuous muscles of her small but strong arms and legs were highlighted by the dim lights that lined the room, her long brown hair shone against that light. Her beauty could not be hidden by a few dim lights, nor could it be concealed behind the shroud of battle-tattered rags; purple shorts and shirt that were once clean and dry, but now were torn and tattered from days of traveling from reload to the line, stained with blood of hers and others, wet with sweat and toil. She was working with her soft brown eyes nearly shut from the exhaustion of it, but kept on going in spite of it all, or to spite it all: it didn’t matter, as long as she kept going. Kept moving, working, trying to do something other than sit and worry.

Last box of ammo and she was nearly ready. Small clips in the box lined as neatly as she could, trying to get as much as possible into the container. If there was one good thing about volunteering to fight for the federal government, it was the free ammunition and repairs, and she was gonna get all that she could, while she could, when she could. Reaching in for the last few clips of small binary rounds, she topped of the box with a lid, placed it on a bench with the other four, and used a big marker to write a large ‘S’ on the top. ‘S’ for small, ‘M’ for medium, and she had two boxes of small and three mediums, ready for action, laying next to the guns that required them. A Madox IV, an AS-147 and a Jungle Stalker, fully repaired and ready to return to service. Lifting her sword that hung sheathed across her back, and holding it in front of here to determine if it needed repair or not, she tilted it side to side analyzing every little nick and blemish. Looked fine to her, she had used it in far worse shape than that, so she returned it to its sheath with a swift and elegant movement.

She turned her head to the left at the sound of rustling and groaning. She looked toward the man that had been quietly sleeping on a nearby bench close to where she had been working for the past forty-five minutes. He moaned a little as he turned in his make-shift bed, dirty and tattered the same as she. Even though he was wearing a nice pair of chinos and a decent business blazer, it was obvious that he had been run through the mill as well; a few small holes in his light-green shirt, stains on his jacket from binary rounds bursting near his wrist while pulling the trigger, brown marks that marred his pants which probably need to be thrown away before they could be repaired or cleaned, filthy shoes that looked like the mud had been scrapped off of them one to many times. There was even dirt that outlined the areas of his body that were not completely covered by his armor that he wore when near the enemy line. Yet, he loved her. He loved her and she knew it. There was something about the way that he looked at her, when he was awake, that made her know, made her feel, outlined the certainty with which he held her close to his heart. After years of toil on the god-forsaken planet of Calypso, everyone begins to sound the same, no matter how dressed they begin to look the same, even begin to smell the same from the mining and the hunting, but the sound of his voice and his presence alone was enough to bring a slim ray of light into her life, sleeping or not.

She closed her eyes, rubbed the side of her face, and wished it was her turn to sleep. Shame it wasn’t though, and there was little time to lose. She wiped an eye with her other hand, opened them and walked toward her sleeping partner. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket she removed a small black box shaped like a pentagon (hers, she left his in his pocket), an ID card, about the size of a credit card, and a thin yet tall metal flask. Returning to her work-bench, she laid the items down with the exception of the card, placing that inside the top of a thing that looked like a thick metal clip-board which then illuminated like a small television. She was reading it to herself and checking off the list while pressing buttons on the blue terminal again. Laying down the clip-board with a yawn, she reached her hands into the transparency of the terminal again, retrieving two small cups of coffee, and into one she poured something from the flask.

‘Wo-womp’

A little on-edge and tired as hell, the sound from the man who had just teleported into the room made her jump a little.

It was Commander Jacobs. “What are you drinking there,” asked the commander.

“It’s not for me,” she said softly, nodding to the man on the bench. “It’s for him.” She took the cup of strongly spiked coffee to her bench warming partner, and rubbed him on the shoulder trying to wake him as gently as she could. “Come’on, wake up ... Hey, it’s time.”

He opened his eyes, gave a little grunt, and sat up like the dead being raised from endless slumber. Taking the coffee which she handed him, he took a little sip and motioned for the flask, nearly snatching it from her hand.

“Really impressive,” she complained to him (thinking to herself that he could be such a jerk) as she walked toward the commander. She grabbed the small black pentagonal box that was on the bench and held it toward the commander. “Sync it,” she said.

He held out his and with a ‘beep-beep’ it was done. She then looked at her personal communicator to be sure that this was really their passenger, not an imposter, scammer, or saboteur. It read, ‘Commander Jacobs, Jon.’ Perfect, she thought. He looked at his too, out of curiosity. ‘Swan Jena Buxton.’

“Everything’s in order with the exception of the 20 pound’ers Commander,” she said as her partner got too his feet, gathering the weapons, slinging them over his shoulder, sipping coffee all the while.

“Yeah. We have no such ordinance here.”

She took the boxes that she had been working on so feverishly and pushed them into the hands of the drinker, then, pulling the card from the clip-board, she placed it back into his jacket pocket.

“Let’s go,” she motivated them. “This way.”

She led the way through the halls with Jacobs on her tail and the box carrying man picking up the rear. Her pace was fast. Commander Jacobs turned his head to the rear to get another look at the man that had been sleeping only a minute before, and held a look on his face like he was disgusted, wondering, trying to figure out just what this guy was doing on a mission like this, drinking no less. The man just looked back at the commander and flipped him a sarcastic smile. Jacobs swiftly returned his head to the front, snatching his master-coat with a snap and making it swing and swirl like a cape or light-weight cloak. The follower just sipped more spiked coffee.

“This one,” she said as she turned to the right, auto-door opening with perfect timing, and
there was the bright-red ship.

This was no battle cruiser, this was no fighter, nor was it a military vessel of any kind; it looked more like a commercial vessel converted to military purposes. Long and sleek design, bright red fuselage with white ceramic heat-shield undercarriage, standing solidly on the flight-deck. Gun turrets to the port and starboard, with another at the top. Turrets that looked a lot like holes had been cut into the ship to place them there. As they approached the ship Commander Jacobs knelt down to inspect the under carriage. Black stains from anti-aircraft artillery marred the surface of the heat-shield tiles, and the make-shift bomb-bay doors appeared to be another recent addition to the ships repertoire.

Still on one knee with his hand against the ship for balance, he looked at his escorts and asked jokingly, “You sure this thing can fly?” Probably not, he quietly thought to himself.

Our coffee drinking man was now at the entry door of the ship. He placed his hand on the doors biometric scanner and it popped open with a hiss of hydraulic and pneumatic release, air, mist and debris shooting out of the sides of the entranceway.

“There’s nothing to worry about sir,” said the battle hardened woman. “This way please. We don’t have much time.”

She entered the ship as her partner walked to the rear of the vessel to remove the fuel and coolant lines, and to do the final inspection. The commander rose to his feet, looked at the entrance to the ship, and reluctantly walked inside. She was leaning over the navigational officers’ seat, pressing buttons to prep for the journey. The ship responded by making a few exterior noises and she turned to the right and motioned toward the chair.

“This seat is yours commander,” as she walked toward the rear.

The commander walked forward to the compartment, looking around as if to make his own inspection. The instrumentation was grimy and soiled: finger-prints left on buttons presses for days with filthy fingers, small pieces of debris strewn around the floor, minute chunks of asphalt and rip-rap shrapnel. Jacobs wondered why pilots would leave a ship so unkept and disorganized (much like the pilots that fly it). He looked at the tape that had been stuck to the back of the navigational officers’ seat that she had pointed to, and looked at the name that was penned onto it. It read, ‘Swan.’ Turning his head to the left, he looked again at the tape on the back of the pilots’ seat. ‘ToolMan,’ it read, and he now turned to face Jena, concerned, troubled.

“He’s the pilot,” the commander asked, with a noticeable and reasonable sense of alarm in his voice.

She moved to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing to worry about,” she tried to consol him. “Now please take your seat.”

Turning with a sigh, he moved to the forward compartment and complied with her request. Of course, he considered his options at that particular moment and knew he had little choice but to allow this drunkard to fly him to the planet. There was no one else to take him.

ToolMan entered the ship and started to work right away. “Unlock the port and starboard turrets honey, and lock’m via wire. Re-route Nav-op to weapons control,” he called out.

“Already done, pulling the sticks now,” as she pulled a red rod-like bar from the wall near each turret. The turrets responded by turning and dropping a little, and she placed the rods in a compartment on the wall behind the turrets. She then walked quickly to the door that separated the weapons control room from the forward compartment. She turned to face the front of the ship as she pressed the button that opened the door. Primary turret and weapons control hung from the ceiling like an odd chair that had been sat in too often. The debris that lined the floor was not much different than that in the front of the vessel. The commander had his head turned to the rear, and was watching her the whole time. “Everything will be fine Commander. Try to relax.”

“Relax,” he jokingly responded. “Suuurrre.”

ToolMan plopped into his seat, turned to the commander and motioned his flask of bombardo vodka at him. “Wanna try this? It helps me.”

“No,” the commander protested, turning once more to face the front, thinking to himself that he had just entered hell or some horrible dream. (If only this man was under my command, I would throw his ass out and fly this heap myself)

“Suit yourself,” said ToolMan, placing the flask in a small compartment near his right leg. He finished his coffee, like chugging a glass of water, and crumpled the cup in his hand, throwing it behind him where it landed on the floor. “What’s the schedule look like honey?”

Jena looked at the control panel mounted on the weapons seat she was now sitting in, pressing a few buttons, and saying, “We’re behind by nearly twenty minutes Til.”

“Well,” Til replied, strapping on his harness and placing his ID card into a slot on the right of the dash, “Let’s strap in and get-it-on. High G take-off hon, so keep it locked for awhile, and lock port and starboard turrets at zero horizon, five-hundred meters.” He heard the turrets move to their new positions as he pushed a few numbers on a keypad and started speaking into a head-set that he was now wearing. “Pilot number 0087762 logging nav-op as Commander Jacobs Jon, weapons-con as Swan Jena Buxton. No gunners on this trip. The turrets are wired-in.”

An automated female voice of the ships on-board computer responded, “Passengers logged Til. Welcome aboard.”

“Here we go,” said ToolMan as the engines began to rev. The sound from the start of the anti-matter drive train was slowly winding up, and it was near deafening when it finally engaged and the revving stopped. “Heads back people. This is gonna be a little rough.”

The ship raised off the flight-deck, and ToolMan brought it to bear 180 degrees to face the docking bay doors which were now open wide, exposing the outside of the asteroid with its large jagged rock-spires raising to the sky as if to reach for something, and revealing their passage out. No sooner was the ship brought into alignment then Til shoot the ship forward like a bullet and they left the launch tunnel with tremendous velocity. The heads that were once placed back gently to the head-rest of the seats were now forced back from the acceleration of the take-off. ToolMan rotated the ship to maneuver through two rock-spires that blocked their path, and continued the rotation until they had done a full spin.

Til had both hands on the stick and was fighting to keep them in position while shouting, “8 G’s and diminishing now.”

He was backing off of the acceleration, slowly, as they traded the surface of the asteroid for the cold of outer space. Commander Jacobs could feel the G’s dropping as he turned his eyes to the indicator, watching the number fall. He could almost raise his head but then let it fall back to the seat again, thumping back to its original position. The planet could be seen in the reaches of distant space.

“Down to 2.5 G’s on my mark,” ToolMan called back to Jena. “3, 2, 1, Mark. Tie it in honey.”

Jena reached her arm over her head, turned a handle and pulled another red bar from the ceiling to unlock her turret. Turning the turret to the right she used the red locking bar to pull a small metal flap that slid back and opened the ammunition chamber. The large heavy depleted rounds dropped into the turret chamber with a loud ‘Tack-a-tack-a-tack-a-tack-a-tack-a’ until the chamber was full, then Jena used the red bar once more to lock the ammunition compartment to the turret, twisting it to ensure it was locked, then rotating the gun turret around and up and down for a quick test.

“Tied in,” she shouted as she looked into her radar, turning the turret to face the rear of the ship. “All quiet.”

“Sure is doll.”

Jacobs was now trying to have a look around, yet it was still difficult to move his head under the pressure of the lateral G-forces. He looked to ToolMan and analyzed: His eyes were fixed on his heads-up display, still two hands on the stick, and no longer backing off of the accelerator anymore but maintaining a constant drive forward. He turned his head to the rear to get a good look at Jena, but saw nothing; the compartment door was now closed. The debris that lined the floor was now all resting back against the wall and door in the rear. The Commanders’ neck started to hurt from fighting the acceleration, and he returned his head to its original position.

“Slow down Til,” Jena cried from the rear. “You’re too hot.”

“I got this,” he said, not backing off for an instant.

The planet was approaching rapidly, growing in size from what was once the size of a baseball, to the size of a basket ball, and now to over double that.

Jena shouted her protest again, “We’re almost there already Til. Slow the hell down!”

He complied with half of her request, stopping the acceleration but not really reducing the speed of the ship. The rapidly approaching planet was nearly covering the whole window when Tool rotated the ship to orient the horizon.

The voice of the computer came once again, “High acceleration. G-force exceeds recommended capacity. The ship is outside the glide-slope. High burn re-entry detected. Auto-pilot engaged.” ToolMan reached forward and pressed a few buttons, and the ship replied with, “Auto-pilot disengaged. Fly by wire deactivated.”

“What are you doing captain,” asked Jacobs.

“Just getting you home a little faster commander. Jena, reroute 80% of the anti-matter generators power to our shields. We’re going in hot.”

“Aye,” she replied as the ship became surrounded with a soft and translucent blue light.

Just in time too. The ship was nosing down and the burn was starting. Slowly, the blue that surrounded the ship was turning red in the forward portions, and this red slowly turned into flame. Roaring flames that shot out towards all sides and burned with great intensity, spreading like a forest fire that was being fueled by evil as it began to surround the whole vessel. Then it happened. The flames in the front of the ship seemed to open up, making a very small hole in the front portion of the shield, and then the nose of the ship started to glow.

“Shields failing in the front quad Til,” Shouted Jena from the rear. “I need to increase power to compensate!”

The small hole in the front of the ships shield was growing, and the light glow at the nose of the vessel was now a burning flame as well. The fires roared on.

“No,” shouted Til as he pulled back on the stick, slowly bringing the nose up again. “I’m gonna need that twenty percent.”

“Damn-it Til!”

Commander Jacobs had both hands gripped to the arms of his seat; head forced back, eyes wide open. “Damn man,” he shouted. “You’re insane!”

The ships nose was rotating back very slowly as the ship was fully engulfed in flames. The roaring of the fire was incredibly loud and frightening. Til took the twenty percent he had demanded from Jena and routed it to the anti-matter thrusters to try to slow the decent.

“If it wasn’t important Commander, I wouldn’t be doing this,” he yelled. The noise from the flames was so loud that everyone was shouting. “On my mark Jena move power from the shields to the thrusters at a rate of five percent per second. Ok?”

“Aye!”

The ship was vibrating like an earthquake. The flames had enveloped the ship so that nothing could be seen outside the forward windows, and Til was panting from the effort to maintain telemetry. Then, nearly as suddenly as it started, the vibrating began to subside, just a little, and one could nearly peer through the flames.

“Here it is,” shouted Tool. “3, 2, 1, mark.”

The sound of the anti-matter drive reallocating power to the thrusters was similar to the revving heard during take-off. The vibration of the ship was not worsening, nor was it lessening, but the flames were starting to dissipate and it was blue skies as far as the eye could see. ToolMan evened-out the ship with the horizon once again, and started flying level, shooting them forward toward their destination. The door that separated the forward compartment from the weapons officer chair opened with a woosh, and Jena through a piece of asphaltic rip-rap toward the front of the ship, hitting Til in the back of the head. He jerked his head forward, yet never took his eyes away from the instrumentation.

“You’re a dumb-ass Til,” she protested. She had never witnessed a re-entry like that, nor heard of one for that matter.

“Am I honey,” he asked a little angry. “What’s the schedule look like now?”

She looked into her display again, and after a short pause was forced to concede, “We’re about three minutes behind now.”

Jacobs turned to face her, and caught his first view of the wake of fire. Through the glass turret dome over Jena’s head he could see the smoke and fire trail that followed the ship. They had burned their way through the atmosphere like a meteor, and he thought that they were probably lucky to be alive.

Til keyed in a few numbers into the keypad again, and began to speak into the headset, “0087762 at 9070 long, 4470 lat, elevation at 6000 and falling, bearing at 022.5. We’re in route to Andrews Air Force Base with priority passenger. Anyone out there?”

The radio crackled with the response, “Aye Tool, we copy and have you on radar. We got you locked in and we’re closing on your rear.”

The voice was familiar, and it was good for both Jena and Til to hear a familiar voice again.

“Copy that Steele,” replied ToolMan. “What’s this ‘we’ stuff?”

ToolMan pressed a few more buttons to convert the upper left-hand portion of his HUD to radar display and he then analyzed the blips. Two ships closing to the right and left flank, nearly on top of them now. He looked to the right and the left, and Jacobs followed suit, trying to see what was upon them. The two ships then pulled to the side of theirs, and held their position as if to escort them home. Steele was to the right, and Rip to the left.

“I just brought a little company Tool,” replied Steele. “Rip and I have a special delivery for Mr. Robot’o north of Zychion.”

Tool looked to the left, “Howdy Rip.”

“Hey Tool,” Rip replied with a wave. “Where’s the lovely Jena today?”

“I’m back here getting my ass burned off Rip.”

“Yeah, I see that,” jumped in Steele. “It looks like it was a hot one guys.”

ToolMan laughed, “This old ship cleans up ok. No worries.”

“Right,” said Steele. “Look, we’re here for the priority escort, but we also have to drop some 20 pound’ers for Zion Command. You’re gonna have to fly low and hold back at about 500 meters or so while we off-load the ordinance. Just clean up the pieces behind us. We’ll be on approach from the east. Just follow my lead. Ok?”

“Ten-four Steele,” replied ToolMan.

“Switch to encrypted channel 147.2 for secured transmission of communications with Zion,” came Rip. “Maintain this heading and speed.”

Then the radio went silent.

“Ok honey,” said Tool. “Gimme thirty degrees down-angle on the port and starboard turrets. Set range to 750 meters please. Let’s clean up those pieces.”

She didn’t respond, but he could hear the turrets moving to their new locations once more. Tool keyed in a few more numbers into the key-pad, and switched to the secure channel.

“Andrews, Andrews, this is Zion Command,” The voice broke into the communications frequency, loud but not clear. There was definitely some interference and some other noise in the background as the man on the other end was shouting his request, “Andrews, Andrews, this is Zion Command, do you copy? Over!”

“Copy that Zion Command,” returned Steele. “This is stick out of Andrews. We’re flying Viking three strong. We copy you and are in route to your position. Over.”

There was a small pause in the communications.

“Damn-it stick, where the hell are you? We need that air support now,” the reply came screaming back, crackling and breaking, with gunfire and men shouting and screaming in the background. “We got toasters nearing the perimeter! They have every position dialed-in! We’re get’n eaten alive out here!!”

Steele answered swiftly, yet calm and cool. His voice was almost soothing as he tried to allay and relieve, “Copy that Zion. Hang tough guys, hang tough. We are 90 seconds out and closing. Over.”

The secured channel was talked over via private channel. Steele again, but calm was gone and exacting was the new tone in his voice, “Break left on my mark. 3, 2, 1, break!”

The coordinated effort was flawless as the pilots broke to make bearing on their targets. Rip and Steele flying nearly 1200 feet above sea level with ToolMan taking the rear at 500 feet. Jena readied herself for the inevitable, as she new exactly what ‘pick up the pieces’ meant. She had been doing this long enough to know that if it moved she was supposed to shoot the hell out of it until it didn’t move anymore. She scanned the forward and backward horizons, rotating the turret, looking for bots.

“Hey,” came the voice of The Commander. “Scouts ahead, in that clearing there.”

She rotated forward to see eight drones, one coordinator, and a warrior nearing the Zychion quarry-pit: one of the biggest Belkar digs on the planet. The coordinator and warrior bots looked as if they were trying to shoot at Rip and Steele, but were out of range. Then they began to fire at Tils’ ship. The drones were running away as she opened fire on them all. The turret was loud and high-pitched, no longer rotating around aimlessly but now making smaller moves, more purposeful and steady. The ground was ablaze with slugs penetrating the soft soil of the planet, and the endoskeletons of the bots in turn, as Jena relentlessly continued her attack, even turning to the rear to make sure they were all dead when they flew overhead.

The private communication came back online with Steele shouting, “Triple-A! We got triple-A inbound! Burst rounds, Burst rounds!”

He didn’t even get done saying the words when the sky was lit with tracer fire, lit with the explosions and bursts from the anti-aircraft artillery being unmercifully thrown at them. Jena was still shooting near the scouting bots when a burst round went off a bit to close to the turret dome, cracking it and breaking off a small shard of thick glass. The shrapnel from it flew at her and cut her across the cheek as she dashed her head backward, nearly falling sideways off of the seat.

“Damn-it,” she screamed. Smoke filled the compartment as she pulled herself back into position and turned the guns toward her aggressors. “Eat this!!”

It was now all guns ablaze. Jena rotated the primary turret left and right, never laying off the trigger for an instant. Tool had both port and starboard turrets shooting rounds downward at anything that got in the way. The ship was jumping and hopping up and down from the forces of the flack that riddled the undercarriage. Commander Jacobs, still gripping the arms of his seat, looked up just in time to see the bombs leave the bomb-bay doors of Steel and Rips’ ships, an almost endless flow of iron and aries falling from underneath of them. Distances and elevations had been so cleverly coordinated that the bombs nearly passed right in front of them on their way to meet their enemies. The sky was raining fire, and they were the bringers of the rain, the creators of death.

Jena rotated to the rear to watch as the bombs exploded. Fire and shrapnel and chunks of earth flew through the air from east to west in rapid succession as the robot encampments were decimated one by one, but something was wrong. Inside the flames, while the dust and fire was settling, came great bursts of blue light. The soldiers and advisors of Zion Command were charging the enemies position, thinking it had been cleared of all resistance by the bombs that had been dropped, and they were being cut to pieces by the flack and fire from the robot ground forces that were still there.

“Oh my god,” she exclaimed as she began to shoot toward the rear, hoping to eliminate some of those bots before those bots killed all those men. Some of the men were still charging, and others were in retreat while Jena picked-off all she could. Yet, every time Jena destroyed one, another would instantly teleport in to take its place.

“What? What’s wrong,” ToolMan shouted to the rear.

She was silent. She stopped shooting and watched in horror while men charged the robot encampments that were supposed to be destroyed, yet were not. As they flew away in the safety of the space craft, artillery out of range, with the scene slowly faded into the distance, she could see people falling to their deaths from the laser and burst fire of the robots. Then the whole city could be seen as nothing but a cloud of smoke, rubble, and bunkers. She wiped the blood that trickled down to her chin with the tear that followed, without letting her eyes leave the scene. She was a fighter: A true warrior at heart. She had been fighting all her life, and never once gave in to any enemy or foe, but for the first time ever she felt like it was hopeless. Like all was lost for humanity on this hunk of rock they now call home, a place where humans were never meant to live anyway.

“What is it honey,” asked Til once more. “What’s going on back there?”

Still no response. Still no answer. But who really had the answers?

“Andrews control,” called out pilot Steele. “Andrews control, this is Andrews stick 0004312, flying three strong, coming in with priority passenger from … Uuuhhm?” He knew not how to finish.

ToolMan interrupted, “Andrews control this is 0087762 flying priority passenger Commander Jacobs, Jon. Requesting permission to land. Over.”

“Copy that stick, this is Andrews control.” The radio was crackling from more interference. “Priority passenger escort granted permission to land at pads number 4 and 8. Please escort priority passenger to pad 1 for immediate debriefing. Over.”

“Roger that control,” returned Tool, as they neared the base and prepared for landing. “Who’s debriefing you Commander,” asked ToolMan. “I mean, pad right next to the command center? Must be pretty important.”

“Admiral William Andrews I think.”

“Billy,” questioned Til as he rounded the flight deck of Andrews AFB. “Damn. Somebody screwed something up, huh?” He had said that with an almost hellish grin. ToolMan knew Admiral Andrews well enough to volunteer to fly for the military. He knew Admiral Andrews well enough to get his ship converted into a military fighter. He knew Billy and looked upon him like a brother, or more appropriately, like a father. He thought to himself, ‘Here’s a guy who thought so little of me and now he’s about to get good and ass-reamed.’ He tried not to laugh.

“Stick,” said Commander Jacobs, turning his head to the side to look ToolMan square in the eye. “Trust me, you don’t want to know what’s going on here.”

“Nope. I sure don’t,” he said, turning his head to face the front and guide the ship into position over the pad.

ToolMan rounded the air base, making a small circle around to get a good look. Steel and Rip were landing, a few others taking-off, the ground busy with people working. Over a hundred ships in all surrounding the base, and Commander Jacobs could see why one pilot could let his space craft get so filthy, how one pilot could allow his vessel to be so unkept: They were all like that, everyone of them stained and damaged from much battle, dirty and dented from taking too much flack, some looked as if they were even to damaged to repair.

They approached Pad #1, and it was surrounded by four men with little red flags in each hand waving them into position, as well as a full military squad waiting by the entrance to the control station, and a bunch of men that Tool couldn’t identify. This was quite serious, he thought, as he slowly lowered the ship into position, rotating the vessel to face away from the control station for easier loading, gently dropping to the pad being mindful to place the bomb-bay doors over the pads service trench. He was not used to landing level on a pad, but it sure was a hell of a lot easier than landing on a jump-rail, and he thought for a moment how easy it must be to be a full-time military pilot.

“Welcome to Andrews Air Force Base Commander Jacobs,” ToolMan said as the ship touched-down, lightly bouncing from the pressure of the ships weight engaging the shocks on the landing gears.

ToolMan unbuckled his harness, rose to his feet, and walked to the door placing his hand on the biometric scanner, opening the door and revealing the fresh air for all to enjoy as it engulfed the interior of the ship. Jena and Jacobs were un-buckled as well. The entrance to the ship was now surrounded by six infantry guards and one had approached the door.

“Commander,” the guardsman at the door called into the ship, questioning to see that he was indeed present.

Jena had been up on her feet already, and she stormed out of the ship shoving Tool and the guardsmen out of the way, and quickly disappearing toward the front of the ship.