A/N: This is my first attempt at something longer than one chapter, so please be kind…I am not sure how to match up Asgard, Tok'ra, Earth reverse-engineering and Ancient Tech and the timelines within the Stargate shows (and never watched an episode of the SG-Universe, so in my universe, it doesn't exist). Therefore, it is AU but I try to keep close to both SG-1 and SGA canon and fanon, and in the last section(s), it's AU all the way because it will be based on events AFTER Season 5.
And I have absolutely NO clue how the military works, so the Day In The Life of Test Pilots, how much interaction students at the federal academies have with actual military, and how things like passing on your rank 'pins' to another really happens, are all blatant assumptions and any corrections will be greatly appreciated. Most of what I *think* is military is based on my interpretation from watching too many NCIS episodes. You've been warned…
This is a WIP…that has an ending though I'm still trying to fit in all the stuff that happens in the middle. I start with Evan's POV and then alternate some scenes in normal narrative (not sure of the terminology; my high school English teacher would be so disappointed) and the last chapter end with John's POV. I tried to make this all Evan's POV, it didn't flow right, tried to take away the POVs, and it didn't feel right. I'm sorry if this seems uneven, hence the WIP because I'm trying to fit all the pieces together.
And anything and everything about SGA, SG-1 and characters and canon (and to some point, fanon), all the stuff attached to them aren't mine; just borrowing them to tweak them in my own little 'verse.
Some slight swearing.
My name is Evan and this is My Dream Job.
As far back as I can remember all I ever wanted to do was to fly. This caused problems at home since I come from a long line of mariners – not Navy, but mariners – those that sail the seas with ships filled with cargo - and mariners don't fly. My great-grandfathers sailed on freighters with coal-fired boilers across the known and unknown seas. Both grandfathers were among the first to graduate from the merchant marine federal academy, began their careers in the engine rooms of Liberty Ships and retired as Chiefs on cargo and tanker ships. My dad was a deckie and worked his way up from Mate to Captain on pre-position supply ships for our military before he started piloting ships of all sizes through the maze of ports in and around the San Francisco Bay area.
We even lived in a ship, a hulking houseboat my parents named Atlantis – how's that for ironic? – versus the more apt 'Titanic' that my sister and I called her since she barely managed to slog her way from marina to marina around the Bay area without the two of us getting volunteered as the Bucket Brigade as she always was sprouting leaks. Our parents were handed their parents' homes when our grandparents retired and decided to leave the coasts and travel the country in RVs. But because my parents couldn't agree on which house to live in, let alone which side of the country, they compromised by actually deciding that living on water was the best alternative. They both liked sunsets over the ocean, so west coast it was. When they realized that renting out a bungalow that was located in the over-yuppified areas of San Francisco plus a Georgetown cape overlooking our nation's lovely capital could pay for our college educations plus fund their retirement, well, my sister and I were doomed to a waterlogged life.
Although Mom taught art to elementary kids in several schools around the San Fran area, we were homeschooled. This was actually another way to say we pretty much taught ourselves since Mom felt that keeping us on any kind of schedule would dampen our creativity, which also meant that we were on our own for other aspects of our lives. As for Dad…between his pilotage duties and alumni organization and union responsibilities, we had even less time with him.
It was an odd though not horrible childhood that contained moments where I would share my breakfasts with seals and seagulls while dinners spent on top of the houseboat had the background of whales as they migrated. There were too many hours pedaling around some questionable port areas, and too many days tagging after other kids that had 'normal' homes and lives just so I could feel what it was like. I sometimes spent days without talking, let alone seeing my parents. We had no curfews, no real structure. My one savior in this is my twin, Deidre. She's a bonafide genius, and diligently memorized every single textbook available as well as what I am sure was an entire encyclopedia set, essentially was the one that homeschooled me and then managed to get a full ride into Stanford and then med school. As for me, I'm no slacker in the brains department, and like my twin I always knew what I wanted to do with my life, as long as it would allow me to head into the skies.
After speed-reading books that Deidre would set in front of me, I would scramble off the boat on my trusty bike to hang around the seaplane tour places that dotted the area. Later on, I cobbled together a motorcycle and wandered around the local airports and helicopter tour sites. That's where I met Gilly. Here was this tall, awkward, incredibly smart and always cheerful guy who charmed the local seaplane operators and helicopter tour guides into letting him learn how to work on these flying machines. Later on, he fell madly in love with Deidre and became the best brother-in-law in history, but at the beginning, I was his shadow and apt student.
I tagged after him, and between Gilly and the people who worked on and flew around the Bay Area, I learned more about planes and what made them work than I ever did at the Academy. When I couldn't find any planes to tinker with, I would spend hours commandeering the flight simulator games that dotted the arcades around the marinas. I built RC planes and helicopters from scratch and filled notebooks with plans and designs for my hoped-for future in the R&D aerospace industry. Then I fell in love with the space shuttles and they became my obsession.
Somehow it seemed that as I grew up, my love for the sky made me blind to my family's links to the sea. My family celebrates National Maritime Day by taking
The Pond Skipper, Dad's fishing boat that did double duty as the Titanic's tugboat, almost a mile out to sea and having a barbecue that consists of a mixture of beef patties, fresh-caught fish and always some kind of seaweed soup my mom would prepare literally out of thin air. Stupid me didn't bother to think that what is almost a holy day for mariners maybe wouldn't be the perfect time to announce my decision to make my future the Air Force.
It went as well as I expected. Deidre gave me a hug and insisted that she give me my first official military cut since I decided to make the most of my 'senior' year by seeing how long I could grow my hair; it rivalled my twin's and it reached halfway down my back. Grandpa Calvin threw the barbeque grill off the boat; my grandmothers calmly gathered a pair of wine bottles, popped the corks then got in the small dingy that always trailed Pond Skipper and set off to shore. Grandpa Harry laughed hysterically before he announced that I would be sailing the skies and boy, you better invite me to your graduation.
One guess as to who has always been my favorite grandparent.
Strangely, my parents weren't upset about me wanting to be a pilot, but then again they were firm believers in the use of pot to combat seasickness which plagued my mom, and since they believed that couples shared everything, they were initially mellow when they heard my announcement. The mellowness didn't stop them from stating they preferred I try to be a commercial pilot since the one thing neither family had done was join the military unless they were drafted. Despite being tax-paying, union-card-carrying people, my parents were also late-to-the-party hippies, hence, the use of the aromatic herb that tempered their ability to take kind any offense. Although Dad still got touchy when I reminded him that he was technically military since he was Navy Reserve like all the graduates of his federal academy, and all the ships he had sailed on as a Deckie were federal charters.
Thing is, my career choice should not have been such a secret to my family. I WAS sailing the skies long before my announcement. My flying career began – officially, as far as my parents were concerned - with hang gliding when I was 14. I already had my heart set on one of those early wingsuits that cost me several years' worth of birthday monies, odd jobs around the marinas and according to my mom, several years off her life when I went on my first jump when I was 16. It was still only thanks to Gilly's promise to my mom that he wouldn't let me get splattered on the beach that I was allowed to even sign up for a jump. I would spend several more years cajoling, begging and pleading with my parents for permission to take flying lessons. Officially, at least.
I still hero-worship Biff, the son of my parents' best friends, and he opened the door to the planes I so very much wanted to fly. My parents couldn't deal with my nonstop complaining about houseboat life during the summer months when school was out; since all the kids were away on vacation, I had no one to hang out with. I could only spend so much time with my Mom in her art studio; I'm a more-than-competent artist but I worked better on my own, and while I love my Mom beyond belief, sharing space with her, well, that often didn't end well. Gilly was usually too busy working the seaplane tours that were packed with tourists, so my parents would send Deidre and me to the middle of America for some of the best summer vacations we ever had. Deidre loved everything about farm life, and me, I was just glad to be on solid ground, at least to sleep on. Plus, my aunt made the best pies in the world.
But every waking second that wasn't spent seated at my aunt's table test-tasting her pies was spent tagging after Biff and Uncle Frank. Biff's dad was a pilot in the war who lost his legs but never his love of the sky, and he and Biff had a small collection of crop dusters in the farm. One of my favorite memories is the first time I sailed into the skies; I was sitting on Biff's lap…barely 6 years old, and I remember screaming insanely with delight as the wheels wobbled on the dirt road as the nose of the plane tilted up. We both ignored the very dangerous facts that I couldn't handle the controls and we both shared the same straps holding us in place. Being underage as well, Biff also lacked permission and a pilot's license to power up the engine of the slower-than-molasses crop duster…not that it ever stopped him.
I had the ignorance of a child back then, and Biff…back then he barely cared about rules especially if there was a chance of something being highly dangerous. In his vocabulary, that was another word for Fun. Um…training, that's what it was, training… Even swinging under the telephone wires was training, though Biff never got out of his habit of giving off little girl screams in the following years when I would lead the way in one crop duster and he would follow me in a second one when we would barnstorm using electrical lines rather than actual barns. He was and still is a much better pilot, but our summers spent dogfighting in slow, cumbersome yet surprisingly maneuverable crop dusters are some of my best memories. How we never crashed or got in trouble is still a mystery to me, since while we flew the crop dusters, we never did any…dusting.
Good times they were.
My charmed life continued as I pretty much strutted into the Academy, and then paraded my proud little self out of Colorado Springs into a life I knew I was born to live. To add onto the weird, almost too-good-to-be-true portion of my life, I coasted through Flight and wasn't a month out before I got a visit from a small group representing some deep dark part of the military. They were never clear whom they answered to other than they had aircraft that were designed, tested and tested again, and maybe could end up being used in the military. Oh, and while it was never even implied, there was always that vibe that if you mentioned anything you see or fly in, 'something' maybe could happen to you.
I became one of a select few pilots without a home base, a flightleader without a squadron. I was also penciled in as an instructor in charge of an ever-changing squadron depending on whom and what I would be training. I was never bored, and looked at every day I walked out to the tarmac as one day closer to my perfect assignment – the space shuttle.
Sometimes I forgot that this was not the normal career of an Air Force officer. Normal officers deployed and saw action, whether in the air in jets or on the ground wearing Kevlar. Compared to many of my colleagues, even Biff, who bypassed the Academy to go to a normal college before flinging himself in the Air Force, I had a cushy job as a test pilot. The fact that I ended up with this assignment in particular, especially since I hadn't seen any combat, and was one of the youngest officers to qualify didn't keep me up at nights. But as with everything in life, there was always a trade-off.
Other than my flight helmet with my callsign, everything else was transient. My personal life was also transient, filled with the kinds of variety that could have cost me my commission and skated often into fraternization or even potential discharge issues, but it did earn me my callsign. So add no permanent friendships or any kind of relationships to the trade-off row of My Life List. My never-ending quest for stability and a home base always seemed to take a distant second place to those sky-sailing ships.
Even before I reached the rank of Captain, I was spending most of my days test-flying anything that was tossed my way. Most of the test flights were at Peterson or Nellis, the two bases where I was kind of, sort of, assigned to. Every few weeks I shuttled planes and jets between them, spending so much time at each base that I had separate uniforms at each base as well as what passed for permanent housing at each place. Yet I had no permanent squadron, no jet with my callsign etched on her side.
I love my parents, but because of their almost hands-off approach to raising me, I relished the need to stick to rules and regs, something the military knows how to do well. I had also learned to stand up for myself, and these translated into my reputation of being no-nonsense and unflappable, not to mention I was diagnosed by a base shrink that I was seeing for all of half a day that I had passive-aggressive tendencies which would actually help me out in my career. My outwardly calm demeanor led my superiors to believe I was a natural-born leader and that I was capable of knowing how to read and weed out the hotdoggers from the true adrenaline junkies that constituted a large percentage of fighter pilots.
It was easy to deal with pilots fresh out of Flight, their pins all nice and shiny. They already were of the mindset that they were Top Gun contenders rather than realize their training had barely started. They had the talent, but they had to learn to rein in their confidence before it turned into arrogance and teased them into taking stupid chances. Those I put in their place in a heartbeat. Not too hard when I used to be just like that. Takes one to know one, I guess.
I also had a second batch of pilots to deal with and some of them terrified me and awed me at the same time. These weren't baby zoomies but pros; not adrenaline junkies, but hardcore. They were stoic and silent when I would stand in front of them and I couldn't help but feel way out of my league. They were pilots who, for the most part outranked me and who had long ago decided to fly their own way, and flight plans and orders and following protocol when in the air be damned.
Couldn't really blame them. Most were returning stateside from Out There, from military bases and active duty in this world's hellholes-of-the-week. When they returned stateside some were assigned to me so I could help them unlearn everything they had learned in order to survive, and remember how to fly the Air Force Way. I also had the unenviable task of figuring out how to ease them out of the planes for good, and probably even save their lives if they were beyond re-training.
There were times I was detailed to England, to select NATO bases across Europe; other times to Antarctica, which was weird since technically there wasn't a permanent Air Force base there. Sometimes I had translators with their top-secret handlers watching my every move as they relaying messages between me and Russian or Chinese crews while I tried not to crash their aircrafts as well. I learned German from dealing with design engineers, got a decent understanding of both Polish and Czech when I was used as an actual test flight dummy for the blackbirds when the interior of a few adapted prototypes were considered then dumped by the military. Sometimes I was the only zoomie in a room filled with Navy and Marine aviators as I battled seasickness when in the middle of the ocean on an aircraft carrier. Growing up on a houseboat that swayed gently did not mean I could deal with those carriers that plowed headfirst into hurricanes. I could never get used to crabwalking on the walls of the halls when I had to get to a meeting and the ocean decided to play toss-the-boat.
But I digress. Cool job.
Anyway, it had started as a typical morning. I had arrived early so I could go over and tweak flight plans, and get into my gear for the scheduled tour of the flight grounds in a basic F-14 with a group of fighter pilots pulled straight from active combat. Then providing no one needed severe reprimanding because experienced fighter pilots tend not to take advice from someone who they just see as a test pilot, and a junior one at that, my plans were then to jump out of my gear and into normal clothes, and drive as fast as my junker could manage to Deidre's house. Then I would drive as fast as possible with Deidre, our mom and a two-year-old toddler across the country to see Gilly. Commercial airlines weren't heading to the small airports closest to where Gilly was often moved to; MAC flights were even more limited in their routes and the three of us couldn't afford a charter plane.
I wish I had the foresight to foist off the flight, but orders were orders and were there for a reason. My group for the morning consisted of combat zoomies coming straight from A-stan. My assignment was to determine how quickly they could transition back to regular duty, or at the least reassign them to the helicopter pools. I had to hold in my annoyance when I noticed that the Base Commander had switched the flight time for the group to late in the day. A scribbled notation constituted the new orders, citing the need to accommodate one pilot that was…somewhere. I hated him even though I had no idea who he was.
I needed to get to my sister who needed me. Gilly was on his third and last deployment when he suffered severe injuries on a mission gone horribly wrong and those in charge had bounced the poor guy from hospital to hospice to hospital across the country, each move further from Deidre and their son, and each move was because he kept getting worse and never better. It hadn't taken a lot of persuading to get leave from the Base Commander; the man did have a heart and I was overdue for leave, but there was the one caveat that I couldn't leave until the training flights were completed. I had blocked off the earliest flight time possible so I could get all my reports submitted before noon, but that was tossed into the literal garbage all because one zoomie that somehow was being treated a little bit different from the rest could take his sweet time getting here.
I remember the loud thunk as I flung my gear bag into my locker when I read my new orders. Great, just great. It was rare that the flight times were changed simply because of one pilot. My guess was that this pilot was very well connected, or maybe did something that the brass still wasn't sure warranted a court martial, a demotion, or on the opposite end a promotion and few medals tossed his way. Still hated that guy.
The locker room had been crowded with airmen and pilots and what seemed like a herd of bison-sized Marines when all movement in the locker room just halted. I turned with them to look at someone I didn't recognize standing in the doorway. I barely had time to turn my attention away from the flight suit that looked, well, way too sexy on the tall blonde even with all the compression pads in place. While the base was awash with, in my experience, more female officers than some of my other posts, very few were pilots. I figured that she was on detail since she definitely wasn't one of the flight leaders. I just sat there as she easily ignored the rest of the locker room's occupants, some barely dressed and suddenly all shy as they crouched down out of view as she had approached me. Without introducing herself, she simply held out one of those new small computer pads and a clipboard filled with papers.
"Captain Lorne; hold this, read this and follow me…" And taking my arm, she pretty much dragged me off the bench, out the door, down the hall and out to a shiny black UTV that sped into an isolated hangar that normally was used for storage but now crawled with activity. I barely could take in what I was trying to read as she muttered something along the lines of '…You'll be escorted by a few Vipers and we'll be taking measurements and calculations, and blah blah blah…'
This woman was all legs and for days afterwards I really REALLY hoped she couldn't read my mind, but I had to admit that those legs covered a helluva lot more ground than mine. So, I tried not to look stupid while I practically jogged to keep up with her while at the same time struggled to decipher what turned out to be a ridiculous flightplan, as well as read through a unique confidentiality agreement that had been printed in a very small font. I was almost embarrassed when she grabbed my collar to yank me back just before I jogged…um, walked fast into the side of… well, the side of something that Just. Couldn't. Be. I had well-earned my poker-face reputation, of being shockproof, that nothing could surprise me… except for…
"Holy crap, a snowspeeder wearing camo…" I whispered, then cleared my throat as I realized that…Lieutenant Colonel…Carter. Crap, she was really senior ranking, at least to those of us junior officers as I hoped she didn't notice my poor attempt to steal a glance at her nametag without ogling her. She was already bored of my company and turned to talk to a few white jacket-clad people. Great, I just swore a really nerdy swear in front of a ranking officer who was obviously smarter than the average pilot if the small bits of conversation with the white jacket brigade was any hint. I will never get in a space shuttle.
It seemed like it was also Bring Your Costumed Kid To Work Day for the scientists in the base since Lieutenant Colonel Carter was already walking away from the craft, animatedly talking with what I thought had to be a child in a motorized wheelchair dressed as a Roswell Gray. She then left the child in the wheelchair with several scientists and technicians to head towards a group of pilots dressed properly in compression-padded flight suits but of a division I hadn't seen before. I guessed they were the escorts for my test-flight of this...not gonna call it that, it's science fiction, LM, just plain ol' science fiction.
Besides from the front this little thing was arched more like staring at a bird heading straight to your windshield. Have to admit that for a prototype that required a living person as a pilot, this one looked almost adorable, with short wings that were curved down and forward and had grooves into them, almost looking more decorative than functional. To contrast the adorable aspect, a pair or what looked like narrow, I-mean-business laser cannons were peeking out from under the wings.
A FREAKIN' SNOWSPEEDER! OR MAYBE NOT!, my eyes screamed to my brain as my hand quickly scrawled my signature across what I hoped was the signature page before I began to walk around the prototype that was in the shape, of, well, you know. I was suddenly surrounded by a trio of oversized airmen, one that wrapped - too tightly - the throat mic around my neck before yanking the clipboard and computer tablet from my hands, the two remaining easily tossing me into the cockpit.
Damn airmen must've been training with the Marines. There was a surprisingly large contingent stationed at this base. They were easily bored and had added a massive gym to an unused hangar to keep busy and out of trouble. Long ago I made a point of making up in musculature what I lacked in height, and I used their gym as often as I could and yet these probably-were-Marines-in-their-prior-lives-airmen lifted me like a toy…
I didn't get a chance to talk to any of the pilot-tossing-airmen before the one that tried to strangle me with the throat mic jammed what I now understood to be an altered DASH prototype helmet onto my head, and then zipped that damn throat mic even tighter around my neck. Ignoring my gagging, he walked away only so that one of the burly pilot-tossing-airmen could reach into the cockpit and almost absentmindedly strap me into the seat and then pretty much slammed down the canopy, hydraulics be damned.
The prototype was set up for a pilot and a GIB, though at this time the rear seat area was crammed with more computer panels. And front and center, or back and center was a bright orange black box. Great. Love those things. Always felt that when I had to share a test flight with one of them, chances were that the designers really didn't expect the flight to go smoothly. So, just me and the black box in this little snow…dammit, LM.
I tried to rearrange certain parts of my anatomy that were pinned beneath the straps while at the same time tried to get familiar with the modifications done in the cockpit as the prototype was towed out of her section. As we cleared the hangar, I noticed a small portable set of bleachers under a tent that held a collection of officers from what looked like ALL of the US branches. In addition, there was a nice collection of both Canadian and Mexican military, and a few uniforms from our European – and was that Russian? – counterparts, along with several civilian-suit-clad people. In front of the tent was a row of tables crammed with computer monitors. For a moment, it reminded me of the scenes at the dog obedience trials my grandmothers would judge. Looked odd back then, still odd today.
I could also make out several young men and women who bore the tell-tale looks of cadets. I could make out a few dressed in summer BDUS from my old alma mater, and guessed that the two other types of uniforms were from the sister Academies that bred the Army, Navy and some Marine officers. I think – actually I'm sure – that I also saw a cadet from the 'hidden' sister Academy where I was supposed to go if my dad had his way, though it isn't so hard to fathom the cadet being here since one of her graduates is already in the Space Program. A Marine-sized cadet…um, midshipman…wearing Naval Academy summer whites was hunched down in front of one of the monitors while Air Force cadets seated to either side of him held what looked to me like old-school video joy sticks in front of them.
Great, I gagged again as I tried to loosen the throat mic, I'm test flying the Academies' joint summer project, and since there were civilians here as well as government officials, a probable we-can-make-a-bunch-of-these-if-we-had-money show. Budget cuts meant the military had to play nice with private investors, even for deep black projects that produced most of the crafts I would test fly. That could explain the pretty privately owned companies' collection of tents and banners, actual banners, set up around the bleachers to block the morning sun. It could also explain the pretty prototype. Looks can sometimes make the wallets open up faster.
Why wasn't I informed of this earlier? I would have dressed for the occasion, which would have consisted of nothing that I was presently dressed in because I never got the chance to change. Except for the helmet, but then again it came with the prototype. I was still dressed in my standard boots, standard flight suit for typical low-level, slow speed training flights, and not a single compression pad anywhere. I had earned flight time in an ever-growing parade of increasingly weird planes, jets and who-knows-what-the-classification-is that I was getting assigned to, and that included an ever-growing collection of specialized, tailored flight suits, some which looked straight out of that stupid XTreme Wormhole show. Biff would make me watch it with him whenever he was in town and we would get drunk and laugh at it which was the only way to watch it. I still thought it was a stupid show. But I had a nice collection of flight suits; too bad they were still in my locker.
My newfangled helmet was larger and lighter than the DASH equipment I had used in the past, and while it still had the standard visor and chinstrap, it was lacking the all-important attachment for an oxygen mask. It also gave me the weird sensation of squeezing my head, barely there vibrations within the helmet. I still tried to make some sense of the cockpit's setup as the prototype was now pushed to a spot in front of the makeshift dais.
The HUD was gone. I didn't remember having to deal with any new switches on the weirdly shaped helmet that covered my entire head, so I wondered if there were extra sensors that activated the HUD simply by my head's movements. Suddenly the entire canopy lit up, and as I slightly turned my head, the display turned with me. Great, at least when I'm spinning my head around trying to keep track as to where the hell I'm heading, the screen will stay with me. Which, I had to remind myself, could give me an unforgettable case of vertigo. Good thing I missed breakfast, just in case…
I could fly F16s in my sleep, and trying to find something familiar in this prototype, I tried to compare this to the Viper. The center console that should have been situated below the rows of computer panels was gone. My brain was still trying to find even the ghost of any typical cockpit inside this…snow…aw, c'mon…test…craft, so I searched for signs of the beautifully primitive bank of my go-to F16 which contained really important things like speed, altimeter, leveler…but in its place was nothing.
When I was able to settle into the seat and take a closer look, I realized that while most cockpits were typically a snug fit, this one gave me some breathing room once I was able to loosen a few important straps. A few prototype side panels that looked more like basic computer screens lined the sides of the cockpit. It almost looked, well, incomplete. I was used to cockpits filled to the bursting with buttons and switches. Not sure about the outside of this…well, the outside definitely did not look the Viper I was expecting to fly, but now the insides….I held in a sigh, trying not to allow my grumble to sound over the mike pressing into my throat...
I figured out that the cockpit was modeled after an F22 since what looked like a throttle was on my left, the control stick nestled between my legs. On my right side was a small collection of buttons gracing the panels and I hoped that they weren't for important things since I was pretty sure that the first sharp turn would push my elbow into them. I hunched down and tucked my arms closer to my body. The only things that were familiar were the pedals, though I somehow sensed an almost different power radiating from the still-not-fired-up craft through my boots.
So here I sat, in something that was definitely NOT an F16 or 22 or any prototype I had been in, with an entirely new interior, looking at a flightplan helpfully taped to the front console that made no sense. Somehow, along with all the rest of the weirdness of the past few minutes, I also had no pre-flight check. Or a pre-flight check was done without me, hence the handwritten flightplan on pale blue notepaper. I was used to sitting in briefing rooms and receiving as much information as possible days, even weeks before a test flight, but this was turning into a Test Flight codenamed Let's Wing It.
The orders were downright confusing, cold and concise, and what I had to do would push me to edge of consciousness since I was expected to complete maneuvers without the benefit of compression suits and oxygen. I'll be lucky to get this, whatever, down in one piece and hopefully could do so without rupturing my eardrums or dealing with nosebleeds. Those were always impressive but annoying as hell. Plus they made a mess and I was down to my last flight suit for the week and wouldn't have time to toss it in the laundry before I could head to Deidre.
I should be honored, I was trying to convince myself, honored that it was me and not the small collection of Majors and Lieutenant Colonels that normally piloted advanced test craft…yeah, not really. Lowly Captain Me versus Majors and Lieutenant Colonels…I'm not exactly valuable…
I sat like a nice quiet pilot in this prototype as she was re-settled in front of the dais. Assorted people rushed to and from the bank of cadets and midshipmen with their game faces on and gamer toys set up in front of them. I assumed they were private sector just by the almost overly confident, arrogant posturing as they talked into earpieces or clacking away at small computer tablets. And they completely ignored me as they milled around the craft taking weird measurements before scurrying back to wherever they came from. I tried to gain their attention, to see if anyone actually knew what was going on and were willing to notice me. I couldn't even tell where communications was in the craft, and no one responded to my request via the throat mic.
But I did hear, quite loud and clear, the orders to fire up the engines, and I had no choice but to hesitate. Where was the on switch? Before I decided to thoroughly embarrass myself, a light began blinking to the side, and giving a little shrug, I tapped it.
Nothing.
The light just kept balefully blinking at me. Several voices were chatting over the radio, but none were directed to me, and no one seemed nonplused when the prototype was dutifully rearranged onto the center of the airstrip, front and center, not a peep coming from the engines. Even the normal sounds of the electronics were absent, including temperature control although it was actually comfortable in the cockpit considering the sweltering summer heat outside.
I was getting frustrated, the helmet's portable HUD already playing havoc with my focus, my ungloved hands passing over the smooth computer screens, hoping that somewhere was a start switch. 'C'mon, pretty baby, fire up…' I kept the words soft enough so that they couldn't be picked up by the radio except as a hum.
Deciding that I really had no choice, I started pressing and poking at buttons and panels and finally, but again, weirdly, the prototype fired up engines that did NOT sound the engines of an F16. Or even a snow…dammit…though I was impressed. The engines were actually quiet, a literal whisper though I could feel the ship vibrate all around me. All the screens lit up, odd-looking symbols along with codes, maps….
Wow.
ΩΩΩΩΩ
Evan sighed, nodding slightly as the waitress took his empty plate and left his dessert in its place. The test flight of the prototype had gone surprisingly well considering he had never flown anything the shape of…well, he did not crash the prototype, but the silent stress about the whole thing had left a tight knot in his neck. Though an entire day had gone by, it was only within the past hour that the adrenaline high had finally dissipated, leaving a road-weary tiredness in its place.
After a brief post-flight meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Carter, Evan was ambushed by a series of scientists, aircraft designers, two Marine generals and the Base Commander. The ensuing briefings took hours, ending only when the senior officers realized that they were all late for some self-congratulatory dinner that did not include Evan. He had also been informed that he was scheduled to test fly at least five other prototypes that were presently on their way to the base from wherever the prototypes were being cobbled together. The Base Commander, a rare apologetic look on his face, had silently cancelled Evan's training flight halfway through the meeting, though the sun had already set by the time Evan was free to leave.
Though the test flight had ended hours before, several of the cadets who attended the test flight were still hovering around the prototype that was returned to the same hangar where the briefings had taken place. Normally attentive to cadets, who were in Evan's mind, future squadron mates, he all but ran from them and rushed into his civilian clothes, this time using the civilian restrooms rather than risk getting ambushed into another test flight. As he had shrugged on his jacket, it hit him hard that he needed a break from the base and planes and military transports. While the test flight had been unique, once he landed that damn speeder…dammit, he became surprisingly angry.
He had become so used to have the military make plans for him, had actively looked for the military to make all the decisions from where he was to work to what he would fly. Yet the one time he needed no changes to his plans, his morning flight was rescheduled then handed to another instructor because of one pilot that had yet to arrive to the base. And no matter how amazingly awesome test flying the Wormhole XTreme science fiction prototype was, Evan felt it would probably not make it past the test phase simply because of its novel design. While the test flight was successful, it still cost him an entire day in travel and as dark as it was, Evan rushed to get out of the base and towards Deidre.
Blocking has way to his car were several stern-looking MPs and a pair of Marine-sized scientists; seriously, they were taking over the entire damn base, he swore under his breath. The scientists practically bounced on their toes as they each reached for an arm. Dammit. Either they willfully ignored his orders to contact the Base Commander to confirm that he had Places to Go, or the man really did cancel his leave and forgot to mention it to Evan. He held in very choice words as he was all but dragged to the cluster of science buildings located in a corner of the base, and shuffled through a maze of labs where military wisely avoided unless dragged by scientists who work out with those damn Marines while a pair of MPs just open doors.
With no explanations as to what he was supposed to do, Evan was placed front and center in a room filled with what he assumed were science projects masquerading as science fiction movie props. Just finished testing Academy projects, now testing civilian science projects. He lost track of time in the windowless rooms, and without his wristwatch that he had tucked into his jacket that was crammed into his knapsack, Evan was only slightly surprised when without any real explanation, he was finally escorted out of the building to the parking lot as the dawn lightened the night sky. He didn't care. He ran to his car, locking the doors the second he tossed himself in the seat and sped away as fast as he could, damn the base's stupidly slow speed limit.
Evan sighed as he glanced out the window, the faded curtains barely blocking the glare from the afternoon sun. His car sat alone in the dusty parking lot of a small diner on the outskirts of somewhere in Arizona. He had gotten lost twice already; he could drive practically in his sleep from Peterson to Nellis, but had to pay attention once he passed the familiar routes to head to Deidre's since he usually flew when he would visit her and little Billy. He had to stop; lack of sleep, hunger and needing to let his car cool down even a little bit before he continued southwest wrestled with his need to get to Deidre.
She hadn't answered his phone calls and he was getting worried. The last time he had spoken to their mother was a day ago. Evan had a short conversation with her as he had waited in the science labs, her words rushed as she began her drive to Pendleton where Gilly was stationed and where Deidre worked in the Naval Hospital. Neither woman had held back their anger when Evan was delayed; time was of the essence for Deidre, but at the same time it was not like either woman to stop contact with him.
Evan nodded in thanks when the waitress refilled his coffee as an older gentleman calmly stopped by the booth, simply introducing himself with a "How would you like to take your career into a direction you could never imagine, son?" and placed a thick folder on the table before he walked to the counter to place an order.
"I know you're pressed for time, but you really should read through these, son…" The man then easily took the seat across Evan, smiling up at the waitress as she placed a sandwich and iced tea in front of him. He looked across at Evan and at the untouched stack of paperwork, "We'll see that you get to where you need to go."
"I'm sorry, sir, have we met…?" Evan started, recognizing something military about the man, though he was at least hours driving too fast from the base to think this was simply a coincidence. Plus, he was good with faces and he just couldn't remember ever meeting this particular man.
The man who sat across from him was in simple civvies; typical short sleeved button front shirt, typical watch on wrist, wedding ring present, reading glasses peeking out from a pocket stuffed with folded papers, cards and pens. The round head was almost devoid of hair, the barrel-chested figure hinting at a much stronger physique than the apparent age would indicate. Looked too, well, friendly, to be a member of the military's upper level of brass, and his easy twang sounded tailor-made for country western shows.
Then again, Peterson, and especially Nellis, were always hives of whispers and theories and odd uniforms and weapons and lots and lots of supplies going through the bases before heading towards Cheyenne, which really didn't seem to need all the supplies he had seen. But, Evan reminded himself, there was the weird prototype in addition to room with all the X-Treme props… and he was just a few hours' driving from Nevada, which had its own small cottage industry of UFOs and conspiracy theory conventions.
Cocking his eyebrow, Evan took the folder, and even before he could flip it open, the man handed him a pen.
"You'll need this."
Looking at the pen, a slight smile crept on Evan's face. He had no idea who this man was, and for a second he thought, hell, he hoped that it was something really secret and cool. Maybe even cooler than the speeder. And then a second later, Evan sobered; he had to get back in his car and drive. He had no time for games.
As the man calmly took out the reading glasses from his breast pocket, he almost too casually allowed an ID tag to 'peek' out of the pocket, and even before Evan could read the name, he recognized the logo.
He stood up quickly, almost tipping the table as his eyes faced forward. "Sir!"
"Sit down, son." Hammond had easily responded as he reached for and held up his tea and Evan's coffee from the rocking table, "And finish your coffee. You have a lot of reading and signing to do, and you have a flight to catch."
Then he surreptitiously glanced out the window and Evan followed his eyes. A dark SUV drove away from the parking lot, and in the large barren field across the diner, an unmarked helicopter easily swooped down and landed as if it did that every day.
"I'll need your keys so we can move your bags from your car, son, and drive your car back to the Mountain." Hammond stirred a few spoonfuls of sugar into his tea as Evan simply gawked at him before slowly sitting back on the booth seat, "You should start reading, son. I suggest page one."
"Is he done signing everything?"
Recognizing THAT voice, Evan was halfway up again before a firm hand pushed him down.
"Ooh, pie." And suddenly Evan was nudged tight into the booth as Jack O'Neill hip-pushed him away from his dessert.
"George…" Jack nodded in greeting to his colleague as he easily picked up the fork and calmly bit into the pie, before tilting his head towards Evan, who could not hide the stunned look in his eyes.
"Jack, this is the young man who flew the prototype."
"Yup; Lorne. We've met." Jack took a slurp of Evan's coffee, "He trained with Caldwell and I graded some of the flights. There's still a lot of untapped potential in this one. So, Lorne, did you sign everything yet?"
"He just opened the file; you really should not rush him." Hammond then turned to Evan, the look on his face calming the younger, very silent man, "That was some test flight, son."
"Sirs…I was testing some…something…"
"And you did so remarkably well considering you had no idea what or where that something came from. Or even WHAT you were flying. Or that it could even fly. And according to our stuffy nerds who refuse to name anything from the Enterprise, what with copyrights and stuff, well, they call it an X-301."
"I…I thought it looked like something from that snow battle scene from Star…"
O'Neill cackled as he picked at the pie, "So did I! But nope, couldn't use those names either. Anyway, I don't impress easily but I liked that you sat surrounded by a whole bunch of really cool stuff and didn't question any of it. Or take the first chance you could get and run away screaming like a normal person." Jack took another mouthful of Evan's pie before pointing to him with the fork, "We need people like you, Major Lorne. Smart, catch on quick, apparently up to the task of not getting too freaked out by weird stuff which impressed Carter…"
"I'm a Captain, sir…not a Major."
"Not anymore. Really good pie. Here, from former Major Mitchell. Congratulations." Jack casually handed Evan a small pouch then started to scrape the now pie-less plate, "Apparently the Lieutenant Colonel caught wind of the test flight, apparently has either heard of you or knows you, and sent his oaks through Major Carter…"
"Lieutenant Colonel Carter, Jack." Hammond easily interrupted.
Jack continued as he finished Evan's coffee. "Everyone getting bounced around with new ranks mean I really need a scorecard."
"You were the one that promoted her, remember?"
"I get that this is not the normal way to receive your…" Jack continued the paused as Hammond cleared his throat.
"Son, are you okay?" The General nodded towards Evan, who at this time did not hide the confusion on his face as he clutched the small bag.
"I apologize, sirs…I've flown with Maj…Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell in the past. He is a fine officer and I will let him known I will be proud to wear…" he sighed, then looked up at the clock in the wall, "Sirs, I have authorized leave…and I'm already a day late for a family emergency…"
"Which you'll get to, son." General Hammond softly interrupted, "We'll see that you get to it in time, but first you'll need to read, sign and return with us to the Mountain for a short briefing."
"Wait…" Jack wiped the plate with his finger, "I like to get reacquainted with the Major sitting so quiet next to me."
"No, Jack." Hammond sighed patiently, "This young man needs to go home." He glanced once more towards Evan, again pushing the paperwork closer to him, "Your sister, mother and nephew are already on their way, Major Lorne. If you read through these, I can answer questions as we head to the Moutain before we meet up with them."
Evan held in a sigh as he quickly scanned the first page, then flipped through the second, reading through the following pages at a faster rate. What he was reading and signing without hesitation was mind-boggling. For those few moments the information on the pages superseding the need to get to his family, and for one second, he didn't even think of them at all as he signed his name and new rank…Major Evan Lorne.
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Evan sighed.
Funerals.
They never got easy. The last time he had been to a funeral was right after he graduated from the Academy, the single silver bar of his brand new rank on the Officer Dress Blues shiny and new. He had stood behind his mother and sister, as Gilly in his Marine uniform stood to one side, and Biff, recently promoted to Captain and also in Officer Dress Blues, to the other. Aunt Wendy had been seated next to his mother, Uncle Frank trying not to lean on his canes as he stood behind his wife.
Evan was back here again, just a few yards from where his father was buried. He stood quietly, somber in his Officer Dress Blues, this time the shiny silver oaks that had last graced Biff's shoulders heavy on his own.
Just like the last time, he made sure his mom and sister had settled into their seats as Gilly's two favorite foster mothers sat to Deidre's other side. Just like last time, Aunt Wendy sat with her hand clenched tightly in his mother's hand. Uncle Frank now accepted that it was easier to sit and sat alongside his wife, her hand in his. Evan stood alone behind the women. He wished Biff was here. It had taken Biff close to a year to barely recover from serious injuries from a mission he couldn't talk about, and was now a world away on another mission that he wasn't allowed to talk about. And Gilly…Gilly wasn't standing next to him, but he was still here.
His father's funeral had been filled with his merchant marine colleagues and workers from the ports who took precious hours off from work to pay their respects, most of them in ill-fitted jackets over boiler suits. In contrast, Gilly's funeral was filled with uniforms, the relative youth of their wearers' testament to the present, active group of military. Evan felt surrounded by a sea of Marines resplendent in what his once childhood's hero-worshipping eyes had seen as beautiful, magnificent uniforms compared to his rather simple Air Force blues. The flag-draped coffin was speckled by the shadows from the tree branches above it, the blaze of colors from the unnaturally warm fall weather brilliant.
With another sigh, he looked down to Deidre, could see the still-stunned look on his twin's face, one of her hands grasping their mother's, the other one almost digging into his on her shoulder, the top of her round belly wet with silent tears. His nephew was with a trusted sitter; she did not want to bring him here. The priest droned on, the military contingent stock-still in the stifling heat while the civilians murmured.
As the simple service continued, Evan felt a twinge, of something, someone watching. Not malevolent, not curious, but…sad. He tried to look around without being obvious, but was barely able to see a slight movement in a small copse of trees to the side of the group. His sister held in a sob as the 9-gun salute broke the morning quiet, and he brought his focus back to her.
John waited by the trees as he watched the small crowd located down the hill. He was not surprised that Gilly's wife would chose this place, far away from the beautiful but almost cold white marble markers of a military cemetery that would one day be his own last resting place as long as he managed not to be kicked out.
Widow, John corrected himself. Gilly now had a widow. With a toddler and one almost ready to show up.
It was fitting that Gilly would get his military funeral even in a civilian cemetery. He was through and through a man of the military; he had been the mechanic, the fixer, the medic with an overloaded pack filled with bandages that had cartoon characters nestled next to a box always filled with spare ammo. Gilly was unique, always with a smile on his face, his long legs and arms always in motion, his dog tags flying all around him, tangling with the accompanying gold chain holding pictures of his wife and son, crowing with joy when he found out he was to be the dad to two boys.
A slight smile crossed John's face. While not Air Force, or even an officer, Gilly had blissfully ignored both rank and the invisible division of branches to take him into his rather large circle of friends in the large tent city outside Kandahar. The impromptu and now legendary Hurray It's Monday and We're Not Dead parties were epic; Gilly had even convinced the company commanders to show up.
'Everyone's welcome in Gillyland, Flash.'
John frowned behind the aviators as the group settled in. The small tent that blocked the hot sun was filled with an almost motley collection of mourners. Young couples stood next to 50-somethings who stood around a small group of Gilly's foster mothers; even a group of what John gathered were older Boy Scouts were present. Even through the maze of foster homes, Gilly had managed to become an Eagle Scout and was a lovable dork about it.
He was not surprised to see the large number of Marines, both officers and enlisted, that were present. A decent amount had that 'doctor/nurse' look, evidence of the large medical group that had struggled to keep Gilly, a combat medic, one of their own, alive once John landed back at the base. Scattered among Gilly's Marines was a decent showing of Army, as well as Reserves from both branches. He even picked out a pair of Navy, an officer, he never could get used to the different rank title, an enlisted as well. To a side he recognized uniforms from the UK's Army as well as well as the small cadre of fearless men that were their translators and now granted safe haven in the States. In spite of all the ranks and protocols, Gilly had been everyone's bud, everyone could count on him, and so everyone was here.
The surprise was seeing one single Air Force representative present as well. John tilted his head to get a better look. The blues were bright compared to the darker Army and Navy uniforms, though the man that wore it had the same bulk and form as the Marines; even sported the same severe Marine haircut. He stood behind Gilly's widow and who John assumed was her mother.
John moved to another tree to get a better look. From this angle he could see Gilly's widow…never got her name since Gilly always called her his 'Pajarita', 'Little Bird'. Petite, with golden brown hair falling in a thick curtain down her back, her face tilted towards her almost impossibly large belly, Gilly's Little Bird grabbed her mother's hand, the other hand clutching the man's hand that rested protectively on her shoulder. Two of Gilly's foster mothers sat on the other side of the widow. Neither one even remotely resembled Gilly, who had been tall, caramel-skinned, with the craziest range of curly red hair and light hazel eyes, his mixed heritage evident in his features.
'I'm a walking genetic UN, but a helluva lot more useful…c'mon, Flash, I hear there's ice cream for dessert. Let's get some before it turns into hot chocolate.'
John tried to get a closer look at the Airman…nope…he squinted right before he pulled out the small monocle from his jacket. The man's rank was easy to see on his shoulders; Major, a rank above his. As the Major dipped his head between the Little Bird and her mother, his cap covering his face, he shifted his body half into John's view. He could see the badge above his heart…a pilot…no, wait…John's eyebrows lifted as he tweaked the monocular…astronaut, in the center of the wings was the distinctive center with the star. The Major was probably was already training for the space shuttles. Lucky bastard, he couldn't help from feeling a second of envy.
John couldn't see too much detail, but he could tell from the way the man's hands rested on Gilly's widow that he must be the Little Bird's brother. Gilly had mentioned that his brother-in-law was military, but John had automatically assumed that he was a Marine. Gilly had also mentioned that his brother-in-law was a pilot, though that wasn't unheard of in the Marines. Except now, he realized that only Air Force uses the term pilot and not aviator. Gilly's brother-in-law managed to stay stateside test flying the military's new toys, didn't mind paperwork, and when they argued, he had to stand on a chair to yell back at Gilly face to face. And that he could pack a helluva punch. The last statement had impressed John since he doubted there were many who could take down 6'6" Gilly.
The Major tilted his head, and then craned it back to the copse of trees where John stood. Just before John ducked behind the tree, he caught a glimpse of pale, sky-blue eyes searching for movement. The man's hands, one on each of the shoulders of Gilly's Little Bird and mother tightened for a moment, and then he turned back to the service.
John waited. He had traveled overnight, only stopping for gas and hitting the head from the moment he was allowed off-base, and didn't bother telling anyone where he was going other than 'I'll be close by'. All the meetings and debriefings and being yelled at and dealing with the possible expulsion, or worse, court-martial for first heading out without orders, and then defying the direct orders that came from his actions could wait.
One thing he was positive about was that it all had been worth it. John risked everything for Gilly, just as he knew the man would have done for him. Gilly was his friend, and he was going to get him. He had taken an Apache without clearance to bring back Gilly and two squadmates from behind enemy lines. John had sped back to the base with the three badly injured servicemen who were then taken first to Italy then stateside where they disappeared into the maze of medical treatment and aftercare.
Months had gone by with almost nonstop wrangling and infighting and probably not-typical negotiations regarding his future done way above his pay grade. There were times he even thought his father had been involved since too many meetings had too many suits sitting alongside uniforms and there were too many 'hello, John, how are you doing?' phone messages from David's assistant from out of the blue. Months had gone by where he had no idea what had happened after he landed the helicopter back at base, then sent from base to base across Europe, only finally to get sent back home. After a few weeks back stateside, he then was ordered to Nellis for what he guessed was probably the last step before those that were out for him decided that he wasn't fit for the Air Force anymore.
John was in sight of the base when he received a call by one of investigators he had hired to find the last of the three men he brought back. While it had taken only a few weeks to find two of them still undergoing rehab in VA hospitals on the east coast, it took months to find Gilly, who had been shuttled between both military and private hospitals across the country.
John had been able to visit with Gilly's squadmates, but with Gilly, all he was able to do was look at the man still covered in casts and bandages from behind a window as his nurse relayed messages to and from him. Despite the months of hospitalization, Gilly's injuries had never healed, and it wasn't hard to see from the reactions from the medical staff that Gilly might never leave his hospital bed. Priding himself an unemotional man, John had barely been able to choke back his emotions when Gilly had thanked him for bringing him home, and his wife was coming once her brother could drive her from Pendleton since she's not allowed to fly right now, baby, you know, and Flash, I know she'll want to talk to you.
But John didn't want to, no, he couldn't impose on what he knew would be a very personal visit. The call from the investigator was not exactly unexpected except for some of the details. Gilly was able to see his pregnant wife and child arrived at the hospital, accompanied by her brother and mother. They arrived in an unmarked helicopter, Mr. Sheppard, thought you would want to know…there was also a medic dressed in Air Force AFUs accompanying them to watch over the wife…
Assured sure that their mother and Aunt Wendy were watching over Deidre, the folded flag clutched tightly by his still-stunned sister, Evan walked around the small crowd under the tent. What seemed like a good portion of the population from Camp Pendleton had arrived, all slighting nodding to the Marine-shaped but not Marine officer, a few salutes heading his way.
He had not expected the new rank and designation, at least not for a few more years, but Evan saluted in return as he headed for the small group of senior Marine officers. From the moment that Gilly had been airlifted out of Afghanistan, Deidre had asked him to find out who were the ones that had pulled Gilly to safety and Evan was finding roadblocks even to the details that weren't deemed classified. From some murmurings through the unofficial grapevine, and the little he was able to get from Gilly, his brother-in-law had tagged along with another squad that ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sitting with Gilly as Deidre had rested in an adjoining room, Evan had patiently listened as a heavily medicated, bandaged Gilly had murmured, in heartbreaking not-sitrep but totally Gilly language, about the one person who had come to his rescue. It wasn't Gilly's beloved Marines or the trusted Army that got there in time to extract them, and that the sole man had risked his own life to return his squad back home.
'…Flash got us, LM. Dude, he found us, shot the crap outta those bastards, and got us home…you're like Flash, loves sailing the sky, LM…'member gramps tellin' us that…though man, you need to lighten up some you're always so serious…can you get me some ice cream…the nurses here keep a stash just for me…'
Evan had a feeling that whoever had brought Gilly and the two other servicemen back to the base was also in a lot of trouble since the grapevine had been filled with murmurs of disobeying direct and no-direct orders, helicopters heading out without clearance, and the dreaded court martial, though half of those rumors weren't sure the pilot was even military. He didn't care. Like his sister, he wanted to find out who had done this, who had brought his sister's soulmate to her and their son. Evan had waited with his mother by the hospital room doorway as they watched Gilly, his bandaged hand resting on Deidre's bump as the two of them murmured words to each other. He also needed to find whoever brought Gilly back to the States, and to thank him for giving Gilly and Deidre their last moments together.
Realizing that he was not in the right frame of mind to figure out even how to start the conversation with the Marine officers, Evan escorted his sister and mother back to the car. As he closed the door, he turned back to look up the hill to where he knew he saw someone watching them, then quickly looked towards where they had left Gilly.
A solitary figure stood in front of the coffin. From the distance all Evan could see was a lean figure of a man wearing a black jacket and jeans, a motorcycle helmet in one hand, dark sunglasses covering his eyes, jet black hair, most likely civilian from the definitely non-regulation cut, plastered against his head from the heat.
The figure stood quietly, and then stood straight and saluted Gilly.
A definitely military salute.
ΩΩΩΩ
TBC