Cockpit

By : Jericah Helios

 

A person could end up claustrophobic in these things. But not us, not Confed pilots. Claustrophobia would have had us drummed out of service years before we could ever hold a flight stick.

 

But when you’re under power and just floating free, thrusters just keeping you at roughly the same place, you get to thinking.  

 

Looking around at the HUD and the slow blinking of the green indicators gets boring. You start stretching and clenching your fingers from under the flight gloves one at a time, relishing the feel of the material against your skin. You look around a bit more and you may even consider hailing your wingman, who would probably be thinking the same thing. But with missions like these, it’s strict radio silence.

 

I heard somewhere that missions like these take their toll on the pilots not because of the possible ambush that they encounter from the enemy but from the endless WAITING.

 

When your view wanders to your wingman, just port of your ship, you start wondering if he, or she in my case, is thinking the same thing. You would probably surmise that she, or he, is since you’re roughly in the same position. Stuck in a milk run just because you’re fresh out of the academy.

 

Then your eyes wander to the stars beyond your wingman’s ship. Beyond them, or maybe amongst them lies Terra, homeworld of your species. The thing you’re supposed to be fighting for.

 

When my thoughts go there, it wanders on to the certain place in the middle of the suburbs, a quiet place, reminiscent of the early twentieth century. I start calculating the time difference and depending on what I get, I wonder what dinner is (Or lunch or breakfast).

 

I wonder if my sister is home from school, and if she had a good time. I start wondering if she’s proud to have a sibling who’s in the Confederation Forces, a pilot nonetheless. Polish is still fresh on my wings but I’ll make her proud I would start to muse.

 

I go on and think about if mother received my letter from last week, but then assume that it would be a weeks before she does, considering the traffic. It would be very late for her birthday but I hope she appreciates it. I wonder if she’s proud to have a pilot for a daughter.

 

It wanders on to my father if he thinks of me anymore….

 

“Bogie at twelve o’clock” My wingman’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Looking at the HUD, an orange Bogie was moving towards us in a slow but sure manner.

 

As it approaches, my grip on the flight stick loosens as it changed from an orange unidentified to a green friendly.

 

“This is Shuttle Archimedes. Escort one and two, do you read?”

 

I smile. The waiting is over.

 

“This is Escort one Archimedes, prepare to follow nav coordinates, three klicks off…”

 

- End -