Failure to Return - 21104.01

By Paul Braggins

Paul Braggins sat at the bar, flanked on both sides by Fleet and Marine Fighter Pilots. They all wore baggy Flight Suits that were spotted with dirt and oil from the recent combat over Carraya, at first none of them said a word and instead stared silently into their glasses, as though the alcoholic contents would provide solace to ease the pain of their loss and answers to the question of “why?” Finally, a young dark-haired woman in the Blue colours of the Aviation Department spoke up.

“So many pilots gone...I don't think I can...”

The girl's voice faltered as she teared up and buried her face in her hands, the pilot next to her sympathetically patting her on the bag and pulling her towards him for a one-armed hug. The mood was gloomy and mournful, as though a dark cloud hung over the head of everyone around the table.

“It doesn't get any easier...believe me...”

The pilots all looked up as their Commander spoke, his gaze not leaving the bottom of his glass as he continued.

“The first one dies, you die too...but there will be others...you just need to put it to the back of your mind and carry on, what we do is dangerous...”

Paul sighed deeply, his shoulders slumped as he knocked back the remainder of his drink in one go.

“I remember the first time I lost a pilot...eighteen years ago, during the Civil War on Dhar'hyyk...I was seventeen, and had just been promoted to Squadron Leader...”

Some of the other pilots stiffened, those that had heard about the brutal conflict that had at one point threatened to end all life on the small planet. Regardless of whether or not they had any knowledge of the war, all were keen to hear their Commander's words for the chance that he might share some insight on dealing with the loss of a comrade.

- - - - - - - - - - -

My Thunderbolt shuddered as cannon-fire chewed large pieces of armour plating from the aft section, and instinctively I pushed the control stick forward and throttled up into a steep dive. The enemy fighter flashed past over my canopy as I looked around for the training flight I had been assigned to lead – there was no sign of the three new Cadets on their first flight out of Flight School, or indeed the other Instructor that made up our number.

I was alone.

I could hear frantic commands from the Control Tower in my headset; ordering us to turn tail and run, but there would be no running from this fight – we were outnumbered at least three to one, and to flee meant certain death for us all...not that staying and fighting meant anything different...

I looped in behind one of the enemy fighters and destroyed it with a well-aimed burst of cannon-fire, before swinging around and diving after another that was preparing to pounce on an unsuspecting Thunderbolt – no doubt one of my Cadets. There was no way I was going to let him get into position so I fired a short burst that went wife, but it had the desired effect - the fighter broke to the right and pulled away, right into my line of fire and with a sustained burst I blew it out of the sky and rolled through the expanding cloud of flame and debris.

The combat couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes before both sides were forced to disengage or risk running out of fuel. My radio had been severely shot up, and it soon became apparent that although I could broadcast my own messages, I was unable to receive any replies – meaning I had no idea where any of the Cadets were. When I did manage to locate my own Carrier and land, damaged and out of fuel, I was informed by an Engineer that I was indeed the first to return. I had at least hoped one of the others might have landed first, or at least been in contact with the Tower to inform them of their decision to divert to another vessel.

As they towed my near-wrecked Fighter away, I decided to wait on the Flight Deck for any sign of my comrades. I didn't have to wait long before the sound of engines in the distance grabbed my attention, and there they were - three dark specks in the distance. I had to keep myself from waving and cheering as the first Fighter touched down, a feeling that threatened to take over as the second and third landed and taxied to the end of the deck before being taken below. It was only as the elevator carrying the last Thunderbolt descended into the dark hangar below that I realised something, and that something made my blood run cold, my hair stand on end and the smile disappear from my face.

There had been five of us when we launched...

I waited for another hour on the deck, not caring that the temperature was dropping and the wind was picking up. Even after the Landing Crews gave up and the runway lights were extinguished, I remained on the pitching deck waiting for any sign of the missing pilot. When I finally did go back inside, the Control Tower was oddly silent as the Radio and Radar Operators worked to try and locate any sign of the missing pilot. Even the ship's Captain paced back and forth, staring at the deck and absent-mindedly puffing on his pipe. I closed the door as quietly as I could, but the click of the latch echoed through the silence, and several people looked up expectantly, the Captain included.

I just shook my head and moved towards the Squadron Roster at the rear of the Bridge and looked at the long list of names and aircraft assignments. All of them had launch and return times, pilot status, and in some cases a tally of kills accumulated that mission ready to be entered into the Squadron Log. That was, all except one.

Flight Cadet Lisa Hunter, assigned to Thunderbolt serial number Sixty-One, launched at 1100 hours. The return time and kills were both ominously empty. I glanced at the clock on the wall, it was nearly 1500 hours. Under normal circumstances, Hunter's Thunderbolt would have had more than enough fuel to keep flying for four hours, but the dogfight would have burned up to half of her fuel, more if her fuel tanks or engines had been damaged. There was no way she was still flying...

“Maybe she managed to put down on another Carrier, or on one of the emergency strips...perhaps she ditched?”

I managed a small smile, the Captain knew as well as I did that even had she somehow put down on one of the camouflaged airstrips on the local island group, she could be on her own for days until she would be rescued, longer if her emergency beacon was not broadcasting. If she had been injured, she wouldn't last that long. Shaking my head, I rubbed off the word 'Active' from the status column and, with the pen dangling from the board by a piece of string, replaced it with a single word.

'MISSING'

As I the pen back in its holder, I realised every eye on the Bridge was staring at me. I ignored the pleading looks from some of the younger members of the crew as I walked past and out onto the unlit deck once again. Closing the door, I leaned heavily against it and sighed as I rubbed my face with my hands, and was surprised to find they came away damp. As I stared at the glistening droplets on my hands, I felt my stomach tying itself in knots as a myriad of questions ran through my mind.

Did I feel guilty for the girl's death? Should I? Could I have saved her?

I was at a loss...

The wind picked up and I shivered, so descending the long staircase into the main hull of the vessel, I aimlessly wandered the halls of the ship's interior as thoughts of self-doubt and guilt continued to plague my mind. It was only when I stopped that I realised where I was, whose bunk I had stopped beside: the name plate read 'Hunter, Lisa'. I stared at the messy sheets, the small teddy bear on one of the pillows, and the photograph of the missing pilot and her parents that hung from the wall. As I stared, I realised how little I had known about her, how little anyone had known her – she had only come aboard the previous morning...her bag was still only half-unpacked in her locker. Taking the bag, I placed it gently on the bed and started to place her belongings into it being deliberately slow and gentle in doing so, so that they would arrive at her parents' residence undamaged.

Taking the photograph down, I took a long look at it. She had been sixteen years old, heeded the call for volunteers and rushed through Flight School, and now, likely as not, was frozen at the bottom of the deep ocean. This time, I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks as I threw the photo across the room, the frame shattering as it impacted on the wall. The tears flowed freely as I slid down the wall and sat in an awkward mess on the floor, clutching at the small stuffed bear I had been about to place in her bag.

I'd been entrusted with her tuition and her safety...and I'd failed...

- - - - - - - - - - -

Paul trailed off, his voice wavering as the raw emotion fought to overcome him and the faces of those killed or missing under his command flooded his memory. A single tear dropped from his face into the empty glass before the tightening grip of his artificial hand shattered it, scattering shards of glass across the table. The sound of splintering glass snapped Paul out of his trance-like state and he cleared his throat, wiping at his eyes with a sleeve.

“Look at me...sentimental old man...you don't need to listen to my tales of woe...”

As a waiter came and cleared away the mess, Paul stood and stretched, he knew from long experience that sitting around moping wouldn't help him overcome the loss of friends and comrades, but he also knew that the assembled pilots needed to learn that for themselves, and that with him around, they would be tense and on edge – unable to drown their sorrows and do something they would later regret. Patting the crying girl on the shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze, he took one last look at the mourners before excusing himself and leaving the bar to find a communications terminal.

He had work to do. The pilots that had lost their lives would have loved ones, and they loved ones deserved to know that their husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers and sisters had died doing their sworn duty – protecting those unable to protect themselves.

Paul had some letters to write...