DISCLAIMER

The characters and situations of Space: Above and Beyond depicted in this story are the legal property of Glen Morgan and James Wong, Hard Eight Productions, and 20th Century Fox Television and have been used without permission. The basic character ideas for Amy Langston and Dale Steinbeck are borrowed from Rayhne and the gang at S:AaB Virtual TV, and are used with permission. All Authors quoted are listed below. No copyright infringement is intended.

IV - Al Rai

Ladder: Navy and Marine Corps terminology for "stairway." The term harkens back to the days when men served aboard sailing vessels.

(One)

16 April 2065

Saratoga

0500

It was a metallic, tinny', hollow sound - almost a banging - and it seemed unreasonably loud in the confined space of the stairwell. It was the sound of McQueen's feet as he pounded up the ladder. A trained ear, if concentrated, could hear a slight unevenness in the sound and rhythm.

Running the ladders in the bow of the Saratoga had been part of Colonel McQueen's workout since the day he had come aboard two years earlier, as it had been on every carrier on which he had served. The forward ladders - the "A" ladders on carriers - were generally empty, and he could really build up a good head of steam. McQueen wanted to think. It was going to be a big day, and he needed to sort a few things into compartments in his mind before it got started.

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The night before, when McQueen had returned to the Saratoga, Ross had decided that the Colonel should meet with the 5-8's flight crew. And Ross wanted to do it with a certain flair. The Commodore and the Colonel had appeared in the hanger while the crew was still busy. The officers had quietly greeted the Chief. Something about McQueen's voice had pierced the cacophony of the flightdeck, and all activity had instantaneously ceased. The silence had been punctuated by the sound of a wrench hitting the deck. One of the mechanics had been so shocked that the tool had slipped from his grip. It was a cardinal sin - but the Chief didn't react to the "ham-handed handling of U.S. Government Property." There was no fire breathing. The offender's intellect and parentage were not called into question. The usual harangue did not zing through the air. The Chief had also been shocked into silence. Commodore Ross had been correct. The sight of McQueen entering the flightdeck had scared the snot out of the crew. Ross damn near laughed. McQueen had known, of course, how proud the flight crew was of their Hammerheads and their pilots, but he had not realized their obvious pride in him as well. A trip to the Enlisted Club and a few drams all around had been needed for purely medicinal purposes - and by this morning the entire ship would know that McQueen was back. When he chose to, Ross knew how to use the shipboard "jungle drums" to his advantage.

The Wildcards had been granted entrance to the Enlisted Club by Ross' special fiat. Cooper had had to stand a round to the crew, and he hated to part with the money. Hawkes was still learning the finer points, and it had amused McQueen, who had patted Coop sympathetically on the back while the bartender totaled the tab.

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McQueen ran back down Ladder A and immediately turned and started up again. True, there were longer, more challenging staircases throughout the ship, but they were heavily trafficked, and consequently not suited for running. On one occasion, McQueen had run up the longest: Ladder seven in section"M" of the ship. Up from the hold to the very top of the 'island' superstructure of the ship - all thirty-one stories - in one shot.

It had been a dare: An after-hours bet after a few drinks with Commodore Ross. Glen had ordered Ladder Seven closed to traffic at 0430 and had timed the run. When McQueen had reached the top, Ross had handed him a marker and McQueen had written his name on the bulkhead outside the lidar control room. He had held the record for seven months. Then Ross had once again closed the ladder for a run by an eighteen-year-old challenger. The kid had bettered McQueen's time by four seconds: It wasn't four seconds that McQueen wanted to contend. Not then and certainly not now.

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Last night Ross had ordered that The Tun be kept open after hours, had escorted the Fifty-eighth to the doors, and dismissed the bartender. He had then wished them all a good night, reminding them at what time they were all expected to be on duty - sober - the next day. Vanessa fired up the jukebox, and Nathan acted as bartender. Shane broke out the cards. Poker. It had just seemed right. Hawkes lost more than he won, but not as badly as he used to. McQueen rightly suspected that Vansen had ordered her Marines not to ask any questions about the upcoming mission, and consequently poker provided the diversion. The conversation remained convivial. The Wildcards caught McQueen up on the war from "not exactly on the front," and he told them his impressions of things at home.

No one asked about his leg. If he was on the Saratoga - in on the mission - he must be good to go.

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One more time up the ladder. It was getting tougher. Thankfully, McQueen had not seen - or been seen by - anyone else this morning. He had made the first pass without a flaw, but had stumbled once on his second pass and three times on the third. The leg was absolutely the best prosthetic around, but it was not perfect. And McQueen was still learning the finer points. He jogged the length of the craft back toward the lift that would take him up into the superstructure - the guest quarters.

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Colonel McQueen had been impressed with how Vansen handled what was now basically 'her' squadron. She had managed to find that narrow space that left her command clearly defined but did not negate the relationship that she had established with the others.

After several hands of poker, and when each of the Wildcards had had his or her limit of spirits, the small party broke up for the night. McQueen noted that Nathan was lagging behind. When the others had moved down the hallway, McQueen turned to West.

"Ask, Lieutenant," he said.

"Kylen, Sir. How is she really? What has she gotten herself into? What is this job?" Nathan was obviously trying not to let his mouth - and his curiosity run away with him.

"Walk with me," McQueen said, and the two made their way toward his guest quarters. The Colonel told Nathan about life on Ridge Farm, and then filled him in as best as he could considering that he didn't know a whole lot about Kylen's new job either: Just that she was going to be working as an analyst for Intelligence. His final words before entering the lift:

"She is probably reading people's mail. Kylen is more than likely buried in some office at Quantico, bored out of her mind and having real second thoughts about this. Don't worry. She'll be fine."

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Impulsively McQueen now skirted the elevators and entered the staircase where he had set his record. He leaned up against the bulkhead that separated the stairs from the main engines, and waited for his heart rate to return to normal. McQueen wanted to do something he had never done before. At the moment, he could think of only one other person in the universe who might already have done it. There might be any number of people, of course, but he knew only one person for sure - Commodore Ross.

McQueen had experienced the idiosyncrasies of individual Hammerheads - how different they each felt under his hands. And he had never doubted Glen Ross' assertion that carriers showed the same individuality in handling and temperament.

Since the end of the CC War, all supercarriers, no matter what their country of registry, had been built to the same plan. It was why the salvage of the Eisenhower was so critical. The hangar bays of the Saratoga were painted all white, with the ship's name in gold lettering. This was not for aesthetics: One only had to look at the rest of the ship to know that aesthetics were low on the list of priorities. The color and the name were points of pride, of course, but were really there to let pilots know precisely where they were. There were stories of young or exhausted pilots trying to dock in the wrong carrier - any port in a storm. There were subtleties and a difference in the general atmosphere between vessels but - without the paint - hangar bays and carriers all looked the same to the untrained eye.

The Saratoga was the fourth carrier Ty had served aboard, and for most of his career the huge ships had been nothing more than a means to an end. Three hots and a cot. Heavily armored garages that took him close to where he had to be. They were the platforms from which he flew, and it hadn't much mattered which ship had provided the service.

This morning - amazingly - there was no other traffic on the normally busy record-contested ladder. McQueen turned around and placed the palms of his hands flat against the bulkhead. It was unyielding to the touch, and cool even though the engine room was on the other side of the firewall. He leaned forward, pressed his forehead against the wall, closed his eyes, and waited to see if his theory would be proved There There it was A vibration. A vibration that was generally not felt - and that was unheard under the general hum of the ship.

The men and women who served aboard the Saratoga gave the ship action and helped to form her spirit. Her heart? Her heart was Glen Ross - without question. Ross set the tone. The atmosphere and morale flowed from him.

But this? This was Saratoga. Her touch. Her song. Her signature. The soul of Sara.'

A hatch opened several decks below McQueen, and the low sound of conversation flowed into the space, disrupting his thoughts. Eighteen flights above him, on the bulkhead outside of the lidar control room, his signature was on the wall. And the Kid's. And five months after the Kid had signed, the ladder had been briefly closed again, and someone had challenged and beaten that record. There were now three signatures, and to "Run Up Ladder Seven" had become part of the Saratoga legend and tradition.

The first run had been McQueen's.

He left the ladder and took one of Sara's elevators up to his deck.

He was still learning the finer points.

End Chapter One

AlRai M. Wheels