CROSSFIRE - Atlantis DSV - New Cape Quest

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The Present Day...
Reverence class Battlecruiser UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110. One thousand
miles south-east of Japan, the Marianas Sea. April 8 th , 2043…
The black-hulled SF-38/A Raptor II came up the recovery ramp of the sea deck softly,
its skids sliding gently with a practiced touch across the recovery ramp: the spray of sea
water behind it settling around the fighter as a fine, gentle mist. The fighter was not
especially old, but like its pilot, the scars of battle and wear were plainly apparent. Two years
had taken their toll on the Raptor, and the once-shining black paintwork had long ago been
worn down to a dark blue-grey. The polish that defined the well-known scheme had lost its
lustre, reduced to a matt-granite that was pock-marked by scratches, stains and small dents
that mechanics had given up in trying to remove, for lack of both time and patience.
Nevertheless, the reception the surfacing subfighter received was spectacular, and
no sooner had it broken the water, warning lights had been turned on in every part of the
hangar as fire hoses began to soak it down from nose to tail. Dozens, if not hundreds of the
Commonwealth‟s crew crowded the deck as the fighter came to a stop, every single one of
them noting the colourful array of uncountable kill scores that had been painted over the
nose. Some of these markings had to be painted over older ones that had faded with time
and wear because there simply wasn‟t enough room.
All of them had come to see the end of an era, and the passage of one of the
greatest pilots that the world had ever known, in to history. The shower of hoses didn‟t stop
as the flight marshal held the two glowing paddles aloft and crossed over his head. He held
them there for several seconds as the two powerful turbines that drove the Raptor whined
down to a stop. After a time, the canopy cracked open and the pilot stepped up and calmly
climbed down the ladder that had been placed next to the fighter to the sound of a deafening
applause. Helmet under arm, the pilot stuffed her gloves inside it and signed the Raptor off
on the clipboard that was presented to her by a smiling, bulk-armed crew chief that slapped
her on the back and then gave her a long hug that virtually lifted her off the deck.
The air was rife with cheers from every level of the hangar, from the flight deck to the
highest gantry as a champagne bottle was brought up to the front by another of the
squadron‟s officers. The bottle, having been shaken vigorously by the deck crew thoroughly
doused the laughing pilot from head to toe. After twelve years in the seat, over four thousand
sorties and three hundred and ninety-eight confirmed subfighter kills, Wing Commander –
now Captain – Corinn Roderick, had finally hung up her riding boots.
She fought to keep tears from her eyes as she worked her way, saturated, through
the crowds of pilots and tech crews that had supported her for so many years, her long-time
executive officer, Commander Dustin Coyle, only a few steps behind. The cheers continued
for the entirety of her walk from the hangar deck, a hundred hands slapping her on the
shoulders, back, and even some other inappropriate places. Of the later, she recognised the
ranks of pilots from both the Dark Angels and Rapiers that had formed a guard of honour
from her Raptor to the exit of the hangar over a hundred feet away. Nearing the door, she
recognised the senior staff of the battlecruiser Commonwealth, central amongst them the
ship‟s Captain.
“Company! Present Arms!” Captain James Banick barked noisily. As she
approached, the assembled officers – all of them in dress uniform - snapped to attention
sharply and saluted her. They held it until she stood in front of them and returned it.
“Congratulations, Captain Roderick,” Banick said slowly as he dropped his salute.
“Not „til tomorrow, sir,” she said with a coy smile. “I‟ll enjoy the dolphins as long as I
can.”
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