The two remaining operational AFUs of the 187 Defender Squadron landed with relatively little hindrance, a relief compared to the day's bad deal. Ryck's AFU lost the whole left arm, leaving only a dirty wound just below the shoulder. Something from the strike also caused paralysis to his unit's left side. Controls were unresponsive and the left leg was dead. Ryck concluded that it had to do with Spade-77's power axe. Due to its inability to land correctly a double layered net for emergency landings was erected, and, void of other choices, he landed his unit on it. Once Ryck disembark, Reaper 03 was quickly brought to the back of the hangar for repairs. Sophie's unit was much more fortunate. Aside from small scratches to the exterior armor it experienced relatively little damage and was ready for immediate use.
On the other hand, Jensen's unit was not savable. Parts that the engineers and technicians thought still worked were taken from Reaper 01. Like the rest of the downed units, they were detonated to prevent an intelligence or worse, the capture and reverse-engineering of the Daggers.
Jensen himself was in critical condition with a broken leg, a concussion, and several fragments from 40 mm cannon shot stuck in his arm, chest, and right calf. On a stretcher and a blood plasma struck onto his wrist, the medics rushed him out of the hangar bay and to the medical bay for surgery. Ryck jumped towards him the first time he saw him. Jensen was barely conscious and heavily bandaged around his head, his chest, his arms, and right leg. It saved Ryck the view of his horrendous open wounds. Either way, the bandages were thick with blood. He was dying. He took his better hand and held it tightly.
"Shit, boss…" Ryck said.
"I got fucked up pretty bad, but I got one of them, didn't I?"
"You got them good, boss. You can pull it through."
He coughed. Blood floated about the air. "Christ." He said, as the emergency elevator opened. He was taken over it, and not seconds later the elevator doors shut and he was on his way.
Sophie then appeared behind him. Ryck looked at her. He went over to him and hugged him. He felt her warm tears on his chest. He put his arms around her now. He knew there was nothing that he could say, nothing to make it better. All she needed was a hug, a tight warm one, and pretend nothing ever happened.
She squeezed him tightly between her arms. She was sobbing now.
“It’s alright, Phee. We made it. We made it.”
***
Ryck sat down in the mess hall. His hands were bloody from touching Jensen, and Sophie was enjoying herself to one of the bottles of whiskey he had saved. Ryck lit a cigarette. Just a couple hours ago, there were six pilots and twelve special technicians in the 187 Squadron mess. Now they were only two, with the technicians busy conducting repairs to the AFUs in the hangar. Sophie had stopped crying and was visibly very, very tired.
Shock, Ryck thought. He had gone through the same thing the first time he lost a friend in battle. Killing and seeing your friends being killed when you could have helped them were two different things. It was a terrible feeling, but in the eighteen months of operating AFUs, Ryck had learned, through the hard way, that comrades dying was the simple reality of warfare. To kill or be killed, and that was never on a personal level. A dead enemy, a dead friend, and being killed yourself had the same probabilities of happening. Assuming this hard truth may not save your life or the life of your friends, but it would in many ways numb the pain of losing a comrade.
No use in getting too emotional. People come and go. What happens when you get too attached, Ryck thought. He remembered an old quote, not remembering who said it. War does not determine who is right, but who is left.
He could hear the door slide open. He saw a man with a navy blue, double-breasted coat. Commander’s stripes were on his shoulders. John F. Kelly took his cap off and headed straight to the two pilots. Ryck rose to his feet, while Sophie was too drunk to realize.
“Commander Kelly, sir.”
“At ease, sergeant.” He said. “May I sit down?”
“Please do, sir.”
Kelly sat down. Ryck followed suit. There was a bit of regret in the commander’s face but he did well to conceal it. The thirty-four-year-old man had been in the service for more than ten years and it was not the first time he had lost men in combat.
“I regret very much the loss of the men of your squadron. However,” he said and paused. “The man you faced today was Gavin E.C.S. Lauzier. He commands the Arcturus 214th Armored Fighter Squadron, The Black Spades, as they like to call it. The loss of Oakley and Meyers to his antics was perhaps his fiftieth kill since the start of the war. Consider yourself lucky to even hold him off.”
Sophie tried to sit upright. Clearly she was not listening to what the commander was saying.
“The death of Ensign Meyers means there is an officer’s billet open on this ship. Sergeant Norican, I’m putting your name in for a direct commission to Second-Lieutenant-of-Marines for the actions you have displayed today and in the course of these last several months. But I’ve got something for you while you wait.” he reached for something in his pocket. It was a small box, the ones people used to propose engagement rings with. He gave it over to Norican.
“You trying to marry me, sir?” he took the box, cigarette in mouth.
The commander grinned at the jest. “Let’s say in my capacity as captain of this vessel, I’m giving you a field promotion. You have been in the grade for more than twelve months now. This is the least I could do.”
He opened the box. It was it. A shoulder insignia. The inscription ‘W.O.’, surrounded by a laurel wreath. Below it, at the edges, were the initials ‘HRCM’ – Hrasvleg Royal Corps of Marines. There was a rare smile across Ryck’s face.
“Congratulations Mr. Norican. Your warrant will be forwarded to your quarters.” He said. “Oh, and if you’d like, your quarters can be moved to the ship’s warrant officers’ section, but I figured you wouldn’t approve as you like being as close to your machine as possible.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ryck said, compliantly. As an enlisted man he was trained to look and act as stoic as possible in front of ranking officers. Feelings and emotions were an officer’s privilege. The commander went on his feet. Ryck followed.
“You two get some rest. We’ll be in Ghalzar’s orbit in about five hours so you get what rest you can. It’ll be a hard brawl down there. Army needs any hand they could get.”
“Sir.”
“Very well then.”
Ryck saluted. The commander returned it. “Oh, and Mister Norican,” he said before turning around. “I’m putting you and Ensign Deschamps in for the Conspicious Gallantry Cross.”
“Save it for the dead, sir. We only did our jobs.”
“Of course you did.” He said. He walked away. The room was silent now, and Ryck put himself back into his seat. He drank. He closed his eyes. He fell asleep.
***
ns 15.158.61.20da2
