Zeva system
Fighter Kirk-0369
Ensign Andrew Riker frowned in concentration as he briefly studied his tactical display, one eye on the almost cartoon-like graphics on his right viewscreen, the other on the real-life image on the left viewscreen. "Riker to Strong," he said, opening a comm link to his flight leader. "I think I can get in close enough to take out their targeting sensors."
*You think, or you know?* Lt. Strong shot back.
Riker again studied the tactical display, calling upon all his training to predict the movements of the fighters and Nygleian ships. "I know," he replied confidently.
There was a pause on the other end as Strong considered the ensign's words and studied his own tactical displays. The deployment of the Kirk caused a complete shuffle in the OFA, with the newly-formed Kirk fighter wing made up of groups from stations around the Federation. Each group was made up of several smaller squadrons, each squadron consisting of three or four flights of six to eight fighters. Although 7th Squadron recently came from Lya Station Alpha, Riker himself was just out of Advanced Fighter Training on Mars Station. Not only was he new to Beta Flight, 7th Squadron, he was new to the type of flying and type of combat Strong and many others in the flight had been performing for three or four years. To say that Strong didn't yet trust Riker's judgment at the helm would be putting it mildly. *Okay,* Strong finally replied. *Let's go for it. Hamilton, Ott, Ponnappa, cover him. Riker, do you know the Yosting formation?*
"Know it?" Riker scoffed with a grin. "I trained at Mars Station, remember? Yosting's wife was my AFT instructor."
*We'll have to swap stories of Paris' training regime when we get back to the Kirk,* Strong commented. *In the meantime, I'll create an opening. On my signal, go for it.*
"Aye." Ensign Riker watched the tactical display closely, waiting for Lt. Strong to make his move. A few seconds later, he saw the green dot representing Strong's fighter break formation, shooting a series of phaser blasts along the hull of the Nygleian ship.
*Now, Riker!* Strong commanded, his small ship expertly dodging the Nygleian blasts. Riker slid his hand up the accelerator controls, instantly shooting to full impulse. He quickly checked his side viewscreen, seeing Hamilton, Ott, and Ponnappa in perfect position for the Yosting formation.
"This is going to be fun," he muttered before sending his fighter into a barrel roll. As if sensing that he was up to something, the Nygleian ship turned its fire from Strong to Riker. He managed to avoid most of it, but a few shots hit his shields, shaking his small ship violently. Undeterred by the disruptions, he continued the spins and turns, hearing the voice of Lt. Commander Miral Paris talking him through the steps of the Yosting formation as he flew.
"Target in sight," he said into the comm link, his right hand working the targeting controls. Before he could fire, his ship shook from the impact of the Nygleian phasers. He heard the hissing sound of a blown conduit somewhere behind his seat, followed closely by the warning klaxons, which he ignored. "I lost the target," he said. "Reacquiring." While his right hand was still working the targeting controls, he slid his left hand down the accelerator controls, slowing the fighter to a near-stop to allow him to make a quick turn and get back on top of the Nygleian sensors. Before he had the opportunity to turn, however, he was pushed forward so brutally his neck snapped forward, his forehead impacting his console.
*Warning. Inertial dampers are off-line,* the emotionless, disembodied voice of the computer could be heard over the klaxons.
"Now you tell me," he muttered groggily, shaking his head slightly and blinking, trying to get his double vision to realign. Sliding back into his chair, he pressed the controls for the harness, relieved to find that it was still functioning properly as it snapped together, pining his body to his seat.
*You still with us, Riker?* Ensign Ott asked, concern in her voice.
"That's debatable," he muttered darkly in reply. Remembering what he was doing, his hands danced over the flight controls, sending his ship into a tight turn. Now strapped to the pilot's seat, he didn't move, but felt the pull of the G-forces as the ship almost spun on its axis. He wondered idly if that was what it used to feel like to pilot the airplanes he learned about in his Aviation History course at the Academy. "Let's try this again," he said, his right hand moving back to the targeting controls. "Reacquiring the target."
*Take the shot as soon as you have it,* Strong ordered.
"Aye," Riker replied. "Firing phasers." His right hand hit the phaser controls as his left continued to turn his fighter, trying to move himself into position for a second hit if necessary.
*You got it,* Ott reported. *They're firing blind.*
Sure enough, the phaser blasts from the larger Nygleian ship seemed to be coming randomly, firing where fighters had been seconds before as the weapons controller was trying to shoot using only visuals. Although untargeted phaser blasts weren't as likely to hit anything as those with functioning targeting sensors, the blasts themselves didn't do any less damage, as Riker learned firsthand a few seconds later. "I'm hit!" he exclaimed, feeling the pull of the uncontrolled spin the shot sent him into. "They took out my starboard nacelle."
*Can you get back to the Kirk?* Strong asked. Still fighting to control his ship, Riker barely managed to glance at the tactical display.
"Negative," he replied. "There's too much traffic between us and the ship. I'm likely to run into something."
*There's an emergency landing site on the planet,* Strong said. *I'm sending you the coordinates now. There's a maintenance team on-site for your fighter, and the flight surgeons have set up a field hospital a couple of city blocks away. Get yourself checked out while they're working on your ship. Hopefully this thing will be over before your repairs are complete.*
"Aye, sir. I'll see you back on the Kirk." Riker opened the coordinates from Strong and attempted to enter them into autopilot. He remembered when he heard the chirping of the error message that ships couldn't fly on autopilot with only one nacelle. "Just what I needed," he muttered darkly. Flying manually and making minute course corrections weren't anything new to him, after three years of Nova Squadron at the Academy and four months of Advanced Fighter Training on Mars, but his head was still pounding from its impact with the console, his eyes requiring more work than usual to stay focused on the controls and viewscreens.
He didn't know if the sluggishness of the shuttle was from the damage to the starboard nacelle, his internal dampers, or his brain, but whatever the cause, it made for one of the worst flights he had ever flown. When he landed, he couldn't even manage to power down his fighter before he stumbled out and threw up on the grassy field of the landing site. "Hey!" one of the maintenance officers shouted at him, running toward the fighter. "What do you think you're doing? You trying to kill us?" He stopped when he saw Riker bent over, still gagging. "Whoa, Ensign, you okay?"
"Yeah," Riker croaked. "Internal dampers went out. Guess my stomach couldn't handle it." He straightened, only to lose his balance and collapse against the side of his shuttle.
"We're getting you to the doctors," the maintenance lieutenant declared. He tapped his combadge. "Medical emergency in the landing site. We need a medical team now."
Riker tried shaking his head, only to see his vision tunneling in response. "I'm fine," he protested weakly, sliding down the side of his ship. He vaguely heard the lieutenant's reassurances that everything would be okay as he lapsed into unconsciousness.