Chapter 11.
"Can you hear anything?" The voice was relentless, having repeated that same question three times, Destiny was finally starting to get on Matt's nerves. Gritting his teeth he tried one last time to get a decent handhold on the slight bit of ledge beneath the window.
"Dave you need to keep still, stop fraking shaking!" said Matt as he struggled to get a handhold. He stood upon fellow student Dave "Roadkill" Wright's narrow shoulders. The trio were concealed behind thick foliage surrounding the outside wall of conference room eleven. "Damn it all, stay still, I can't get a grip!" Destiny helped to brace Roadkill and Matt was finally able to get a firm grip. He pulled himself up and was able to hook his arm around a corner drain pipe. Less than two inches of the sole of his boots grabbed purchase on the ledge, one wrong slip and he was falling at least twelve feet and would most likely take the flimsy drain pipe with him. Once secured, he inched his way towards the corner of the grimy window to peer in. Within it was a long table occupied by six flight instructors, Colonel Horlach sat at the center of the table. In the center of the room stood Hotdog at the position of attention. Matt strained to hear what they were saying.
"Lieutenant Junior grade Branden Costanza, you stand before this board to face our judgment." began Horlach solemnly. "You've racked up an unimpressive list of accomplishments, mister; repeated failure to stay awake during instructional periods, repeated violation of the gambling prohibition for students, and an inability to maintain the minimum grade point average. If these infractions weren't enough to place you on the line of serious wash-out jeopardy, then this latest incident was enough to push you over that line under full turbos. You lost control of your aircraft after that bird strike, you panicked...and not only placed yourself and your back-seater in danger, but struck another viper, namely the one I was riding in, putting us in danger as well. After repeat instructions from Major Royce, you finally recovered and brought your aircraft down to the deck, only to destroy the landing gear on a completely unsat landing." The inquisition lasted another ten minutes, with each instructor taking their pound of flesh. Hotdog looked miserable, Matt had truly felt bad for him, but knew Horlach was right. Hotdog had frakked up from almost his first day on Picon.
"Lieutenant Costanza, it is the judgment of this board that you be discharged from this flight school effective immediately. You may reapply no sooner than two years time, I would suggest that you use that time to decide what kind of an officer you intend to be in Colonial Fleet. You've squandered an incredible opportunity here, lieutenant. Too much ambrosia, too many late nights, and not nearly enough dedication to academics...it is clear that at this time, you are not ready for flying vipers." Horlach paused a moment and stared directly at Costanza. "Personally, I don't know if you ever will be. May the gods have mercy on your soul." With those words he dropped the gavel to the tabletop, ending the proceeding, and Hotdog's quest to become a viper pilot.
"What's happening?" pressed Destiny.
"Hotdogs gone...he washed out!" Much to Roadkill's relief, Matt dropped to the ground. The three friends walked back to their quarters in silence. Classes had been rescheduled until after Hotdog's inquest, and they had at least another two hours before class resumed. After noon chow, the announcement was made to fall into formation in the courtyard. Twenty nine nuggets formed up as senior flight instructor Horlach and his assistants stood quietly. They stood at the position of attention for at least twenty minutes. It was then that the door to the dorms opened and out stepped Hotdog carrying his duffel and civilian suitcase. He never once looked up, nor at his former classmates as he walked across the courtyard, stopping at a medium-sized granite wall with thirty brass pegs protruding at least twelve inches from the top. He reached down and opened the top of his military issued duffel, pulling out his helmet. He seemed to cradle it in his hands for a moment until he then placed it upon the peg bearing the number 27 beneath it. The dreaded wall of shame; this was where academy washouts made their final journey, obligated to "hang up" their helmet before departing the grounds. He would not be the last to visit the wall.
It had been weeks since Hotdog visited the wall of shame, since then, two other would-be viper pilots hung their helmets; Giggles and Two-times, both natives of Caprica. It was discovered that Lt. Jg. Pete "Giggles" Hart had hidden a vision problem which would have disqualified him from flying vipers. He got as far as he did by using black market contact lenses that fooled medical scanners during the physical examination process of basic training. The other Caprican, Lt. Jg. Ricardo "Two-Times" Lopez washed out after six bad landings, two of which required extensive repairs, and a failed mid-term exam. Matt, Kara and Dave were sitting in the lounge watching the Caprican Buccaneers completely dominate the Libran Lancers in Pyramid on the television. The mood was somber.
"Two more down, I wonder who's going to be next?" asked Dave taking a long pull of his non-alcoholic drink. Once the flying stage of viper school started, all nuggets were prohibited from drinking alcohol until weekend shore leave, and then they had to have a minimum of fourteen hours of sobriety before flying.
"Well I know who it won't be!" replied Kara winking. "I busted my ass to get this far, there is no frakking way I'm gonna wash out."
"Gods willing." retorted Roadkill.
"The gods have nothing to do with it, never have...never will!" Snapped Matt. Roadkill and Destiny made a show of moving their seats far from Matt for his blasphemy.
"I am not getting my ass fried from a bolt from the blue because of you, Hephaestus!" laughed Destiny. "I take it you don't believe in the gods?"
"Mystical felgercarb made up by ancients drunk on ambrosia as they fled Kobol." replied Matt trying to pay attention to the game. "I'm starting to believe that even Kobol is a lie." Roadkill placed his hands over his ears and ran around the room. The trio broke out in much needed laughter.
The next day would be another grueling day in the cockpit, the temperature was cold, and winter was fast approaching on Picon. Matt had completed his pre-flight checks and had the Voram engines warmed up. Colonel Horlach was just about ready to order him to take off when they noticed a Colonial Marine vehicle racing onto the runway, its blue flashers visible. "What the frak is this?" grumbled Horlach. The vehicle came to a stop in front of their viper, and a marine captain leaped out, walking over to the viper. Colonel Horlach popped the canopy and looked directly at the young marine who snapped out a crisp salute as he approached. "What can I do for you, captain?"
"Colonel, I need a moment of your time, could you step out of the viper, there has been a...situation." replied the marine grimly. Raol Horlach unsnapped his harness and climbed down onto the tarmac. The marine guided him over towards the nose of the viper, away from the whine of the three Voram engines sitting at idle. "Colonel, this is an official notification from Fleet headquarters, your son, Officer Jon Horlach of the Libran Police Force was involved in a shooting. Reports indicate that he had pulled over a vehicle on a routine traffic stop when the driver shot him twice in the chest as he approached the vehicle. He's in critical condition at the intensive care unit at Libran Medical." Matt could see Horlach's face turn ashen before quickly regaining his composure. He saluted the marine captain and then turned toward Matt, gesturing to kill the engines. Matt quickly complied and shut down the three Voram engines.
"Lensherr, I have a personal matter that requires my immediate attention, your flight will have to be rescheduled for later in the day with another flight instructor." said Horlach walking past the cockpit. Matt wondered what could have been so important to have elicited such an emotional response from the hardened flight instructor. The remainder of the day consisted of basic training maneuvers that lasted well into late afternoon. By the time dinner had come around, word of the shooting of Timezone's son had gotten around. Like every other meal, Matt sat with Destiny and Roadkill at a corner table.
"Did you hear about the old man's son getting shot?" said Dave the moment Matt had sat down with his tray.
"Yeah," replied Matt. "I didn't even know he had a son, wonder if he's a hard-ass like Timezone."
"Rumor mill has it that he might not make it." chimed in Destiny as she scarfed down a forkful of potatoes.
"Straight from the rumor control officer herself." teased Roadkill. Destiny just glared at him and continued to eat her dinner. "No seriously, one of the flight instructors told me on the sly that the old man's son is in critical condition with two to the chest."
"Don't police officers wear a frakking vest?" asked Roadkill.
"Apparently he was wearing his, and the rounds still penetrated it."
"Definitely not civilian rounds, sounds like military rounds if they penetrated a bullet-proof vest." said Matt. "The old man left Picon on a Raptor an hour after being notified, I guess they aren't expecting the son to make it and were rushing him there. How many jumps do you think it is from Picon to Libran?"
"Not sure, maybe six." guessed Dave.
"Not even close...man talk about being star system challenged." laughed Destiny. "So...change of subject, what Battlestar group would you guys like to be assigned to once we're certified viper pilots?" asked Destiny. "If I have my choice, I'm heading for the top dog...Pegasus!"
"Admiral Cain? From what I hear she's even tougher than Horlach." observed Matt.
"Ha, if you can't run with the big daggits...stay on the porch little boy." laughed Kara. "As the person who will most likely graduate in 2nd place, I'm sure you'll get a decent choice Matt, where would you go?"
Ignoring the obvious jibe, Matt looked up at the ceiling as if pondering the question. "Well, if I have my choice, I would request Battlestar group 39, the Triton."
"Commander James Jonasson ?" said Dave between bites. "Wow, that's a decent choice. Way I hear it...Jonasson is a pretty good Battlestar commander, a rising star in the fleet. You two have your sights aimed high, course with my luck I'll probably get the Galactica. I'm not sure whose older, the ship or Nash, it's commander." laughed Roadkill.
"Galactica? Frak...that ship is so obsolete they relegated it to intra-system duties, Gods help the poor frakkers who get stuck on that scow." said destiny cleaning off the remaining food from her plate.
"Triton is a good ship, not as new as Pegasus, but right up there." said Matt. "Yeah, Galactica is an old ship, but has a good battle history, newer doesn't necessarily translate into better, Kara. You should be smart enough to know that."
"That why they scrapped most of her sister ships, or upgraded those that weren't?" challenged Kara.
"Look, I'm not gonna sit here debating which Battlestars are better, all I'm saying is that Galactica has a proven battle record against the Cylons. Does Pegasus? No!" said Matt sharply. The three continued on with their debate on various warships throughout the fleet until late into the night.