Disclaimer
Macross is owned by or licensed to lots of people - Tatsunoko Studios, Harmony Gold, Studio Nue, Streamline Video...note that none of them are me.
The same can be said of Ranma 1/2 - Rumiko Takahashi, Kitty, Shonen Sunday Comics, Viz Video. Not me.
I didn't create any of them, and I certainly do not own them. Any use of them in this story is meant as nothing more than tribute. Please don't sue me.
Wednesday's Child
Six: Forward to Yesterday
October 11th, 2005
Dear Ranma,
I'm so excited, I can barely write! I got my letter back from the UN Spacy Academy. I've been accepted! I have to report for orientation next week, but the next Basic doesn't start until January. I'm not really looking forward to that, crawling around in the ice and snow, but if you can do it, I can do it, right?
I was happy to hear about your promotion, too. Lieutenant First Class. Are they going to give you your own squadron? It seems odd that you made Sergeant in just a few years, but it took you almost five years to get 1st Lieutenant from 2nd. And it's nice to see that women can advance in the armed forces. But you're, what, twenty-six now? I don't know a lot about promotion schedules yet, but it seems to me that you should have a higher rank than that. You've been in the forces since you were sixteen. Ten years, and you've only made 1st Looie. Of course, you spent a lot of time as an enlisted woman as well.
Anyway, I'll be commissioned in two years, and with luck, maybe we'll be on the same boat.
Love, Hayase Misa.
The muted growl of the Kenosha's motors rose slowly in volume, marking the beginning of the day's flight operations. Ranma glanced up from his knee-board and watched as two F/A-18E Hornet attack fighters were pushed back onto the cats by the deck tractor. He glanced back down, and added up, for the fourth time, the payload of his own jet.
He'd had plenty of illusions, four years ago, about what flying would be like. The UN Marine Flight Instruction Center, located at Miramar, had ground most of those out of him. Built around the old United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar FIC taught Marines to fly as they taught them to do everything else: With teamwork, by the book, in a precise, orderly, military manner. Eighty percent of flight operations was accounting. If not managing his own aircraft's weight loads and flight statistics, he was handling the team of technicians and support staff required to keep his jet in fighting trim.
He hadn't been surprised to learn that sixty people, not counting himself, were required to make the Hornet into a weapon. What did surprise him was that twenty of them answered directly to him. There was a reason that officers flew aircraft, and it had nothing to do with wardroom mentality. He was the team's lead, and he was expected to lead them.
But in keeping with the other traditions of the Marines, the Corps had brought in six graduates of the Navy Fighter Weapons School, among the last to graduate before it was shut down and subsequently sold to the UN. And they had taught this latest crop of Marine aviators how, when presented with this weapon, to use it as a weapon. Sixty people might be needed to ready and maintain the weapon, but in the final analysis, the performance of the weapon came down to one Marine, properly trained in its use.
The deck shook as first one, then the second, Hornet was blasted off the catapults. He glanced over at the elevator and watched as his own ride, Delta 403, was elevated to the flight deck. The wings unfolded, dropping from their stowage position to flight position - an act that always made his teeth sweat. If those things decided to fold in flight...He watched as the ordies, dressed in their garish orange jumpsuits, dragged the weapons towards the airplane.
"Just a short hop today, Sir."
He glanced up at his plane captain. The young woman - a chief sergeant despite her youth - stood slightly behind him, watching the ordnance crew lifting the first missile up to the plane.
Sergeant Wiersbowski looked down at her own clipboard. "Why did you order the extra fuel?"
Ranma shrugged. "I had fifteen hundred spare pounds, so I decided to gas up. Will there be a problem with the center tank?"
"Naw." The sergeant shook her head. "We're getting a bit low on them, but the Major hasn't said anything about it yet." Major Tom Robbins was the commander of UM-13, the Black Watch. Responsible for the thirty-six airplanes (plus four spares) and over three hundred men and women who worked with them, he had the right - indeed, the responsibility - to impose limits on stores consumption. External fuel tanks were jettisoned when emptied, or before combat, and were therefore consumable stores.
"Did you hear about the Rogers?"
"Nope." Ranma shook his head. "What happened?"
"They lost eight jets last week. Massive furball over Guam. The brass has officially struck their colours."
"Yeah?" Ranma sighed. "They're a proud old corp. This'll shake them up."
"Well, two of them will be coming here, next week, to fill some holes in our own lineup."
Ranma snorted. VF-84, the Americans' feared Jolly Roger Squadron, were Navy pukes. "How are they gonna fit in with us Jarheads?"
Wiersbowski grinned. "Probably not well, at first. But they'll learn."
Ranma nodded absently, then stood up. One hand instinctively slapped his kneeboard, making sure it was properly sealed. "Well. I'm due at the office in about three minutes, Sarge."
"Good hunting, Sir."
"Thanks." He jogged towards his airplane.
"Cat's Eye reports two bogies on an intercept course for Guam, Sir."
Captain Antonio Mancuso, UN Maritime Forces, turned at the tech's call. He glanced up at the glass partition. A rated tech was already scribbling details on it from the other side - all the techs who worked that side of the layout were well versed in writing backwards. He stared at the CIC board, then turned to Colonel Vinh.
"Chinese, maybe?"
"Could be." Vinh tugged absently at his small, neat mustache. "Speed?"
The radio operator toggled his system. "Cat's Eye, Kenosha. Say bogey's speed and altitude, over." He paused to listen, then glanced back at the Colonel. "Sir, Cat's Eyes reports speed relative to the ground at six hundred knots at two hundred feet."
"Mach one at two hundred feet? They're not civilians." Vinh glanced back up at the CIC board. "If they're that new variant of the Flanker, they'll eat my Hornets for lunch." He considered. "Vector Bravo Two flight to intercept. Warn them off, if possible."
Ranma settled in for his fourth run down the valley. He guessed that he'd caught his opponent napping the first time, and the second two times, he'd been pinged only briefly by search radar. His computer had confirmed that the radar was of the type normally found attached to an SA-2 launcher. Not normally something to instill confidence in a fighter jock, but it had pleased Ranma greatly. For he was flying that most dangerous of missions, Suppression of Enemy Air Defense. Or, as Navy and Marines called it, Iron Hand, a name that he by far and away preferred.
This time, the search radar lit him up, and his threat receiver went nuts as it switched to guidance mode. But this was exactly what he'd been waiting for. He clicked open his mike, gave the brevity call that informed any observer of his action: "Magnum, magnum, magnum!"
He thumbed his weapon release button, and his number three station kicked an AGM-84 HARM missile off of the rack. The missile streaked right down the beam of the guidance radar. The radar operator must have seen it coming, because the beam faded, but it was far too late for him; the HARM would simply follow its current course, which would likely carry it close enough to the radar vehicle to kill it.
His threat receiver howled again, and Ranma's eyes glanced up to the indicators. He was being painted again, but from a different source! He banked the plane over, diving towards a hill, but he could already see the massive surface-to-air missile lifting off from the ground. The SA-2, referred to by the UN as the Gainful, was quite obsolete, but it would still cheerfully kill a Hornet. Ranma toggled his jammers, and dived for the deck, btt the missile followed him in. He twisted in his seat, trying to spot the guiding radar; another HARM would get that missile off his ass in a hurry. The SA-2 was not self-guided, and relied on the ground radar installation to bring it into its target.
But he couldn't spot it. He spotted the launch site itself, with the missile crews struggling to get another SA-2 onto the launch rails, and angled his Hornet towards them. One hand absently flipped his battle computer to ground attack mode, and selected a different station. He watched his altitude with one eye, and the SAM with the other, and waited until it was almost on top of him. Then pulled up sharply, pumping out chaff as he did so.
As scary as having a SAM chasing you was, it was easy to forget that they couldn't turn worth a damn. The missile overshot him, chasing his chaff, then exploded well below him. He pushed the nose of the fighter back down, adjusted his course, and aimed for the launching vehicle. Another touch of the weapon release button, and a Rockeye went tumbling in and amongst the missile site. It disgorged a cloud of tiny bomblets as it fell, and their rippling explosion destroyed the launch crew, the launch vehicle, and several spare missiles nearby.
He tried not to think of it. More than ten years in uniform, and he still hated to kill. But that SA-2 site would not be shooting at his fellow Marines when they came in to take this island.
"Magnum!"
He glanced over to starboard, and watched as his wingleader punched off a HARM. He clicked the mike button.
"Dee four oh two, Dee four oh three. Was that a K-type source?"
"Yep. He went off the air...Damn." Featherstone banked his fighter and got clear of his target. "HARM missed. He's painting again."
"He wasn't in the briefing." Ranma nosed his fighter towards the radar site. "Dee five oh three in hot with HARMs."
"SAM!" Featherstone banked again, harder this time. "I've got a SAM on my ass."
"Hold tight, four oh two." The Gainful was tracking the radar paint on Featherstone's bird, but that radar paint had to come from somewhere...
There! He was too far out of arc to pick up the SAM radar's beam, which made the HARM much less likely to hit, but his wingleader was being chased down by a SAM. He waited for the Lock indicator, and pickled off the HARM.
True to form, the radar operator killed his beam. Both the HARM and the Gainful lost lock and self-destructed, but Ranma had his target now. He pounced, dropping his second Rockeye canister right in their laps.
"We haven't got site two yet." Featherstone pulled up next to Ranma's fighter. "I've only got one HARM left, but both my Rockeyes."
"I'm out of both." Ranma checked his stores list. "Two Snakes, two Slammers, lots of cannon shells."
His divisional tac freak crackled. "Delta flight, say your state, over."
"Delta four hundred, empty and seven hundred."
"Delta four oh one, one Rockeye, nine hundred."
"Delta four oh two, one HARM, two Rockeyes, seven hundred."
He clicked his mike. "Delta four oh three, empty, sixteen hundred." He didn't bother mentioning the air-to-air ordnance; his entire Flight was doing Iron Hand, but the Hornet's four air-to-air missile stations were dedicated. Unlikely that any of them had expended any yet.
"Four oh three and four hundred, we have unknown bandits closing on your position. Your vector for intercept is two eighty five for sixty. They've already killed Bravo. Gate."
"Four oh three, roger." He pulled his airplane around to the intercept heading, and rammed the throttles forward to the top. His thumb found the afterburner button and punched it up to stage five, and the bird surged ahead at maximum acceleration. Sixty kilometers downrange was almost in range for his AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles - known to the pilots as Slammers. But he couldn't get visual confirmation from...he checked his radar; fifty three kilometers and closing.
"Cat's Eye, Dee four oh three. Confirm no friendlies in the area of those bandits." He checked his shoulder, saw Delta 400 forming on his wing.
"Dee four oh three, confirmed. No friendly aircraft within twenty klicks of the bandits."
"Dee four hundred. You want the lead?"
"Naw. You're already there." Delta 400's pilot, Hans Schreiber, was from Germany, but his accent when he spoke Basic seemed odd; perhaps he'd learned Basic from a Scot?
"Okay. Slammers. I got the one to the left."
"Roger."
Ranma waited as the AIM-120 got the scent of its prey, and then punched his weapon release stud. "Fox Two!"
"Fox Two!" Delta 400 released his weapon seconds after Ranma's, and both AMRAAMs roared downrange.
And Ranma's radar display went crazy.
"Jamming."
"Lock lost; both weapons just self-destructed."
"Intercept in sixty." Ranma flipped the weapon selector over to his first Sidewinder. "It's gonna be a knife-fight."
"Delta four oh three confirms both bandits splashed," stated the commo rating. "Four hundred was hit, punched out. We're dispatching SAR."
"Good." Captain Mancuso nodded, and turned to Colonel Vinh. "How are your attack birds doing?"
"We've hit every programmed target, but a few air-defense sites that we didn't know about have cost us. Our side of this operation is pretty much successful, though."
"Excellent." Mancuso turned back to the commo tech. "Signal Shankland and Young to begin landing operations."
Delta 403 made a clean trap, and Ranma started his shutdown procedures. A deck tractor rolled up, snagging his nose gear, and started towing the jet towards the elevators. He snapped his kneeboard shut, popped the canopy, and climbed down from the airplane.
Lt. Carver, his LSO, came jogging up, and Ranma waved as he approached.
"Good trap?"
"Caught a three wire." The LSO was jotting notes on his PDA. "Debrief for the trap might take thirty whole seconds."
"Good stuff." Ranma nodded. "Mission debrief's gonna take a little longer. Did they pick up Schreiber?"
"SAR helo was dispatched, but I haven't heard anything else. As soon as--"
The bitch box crackled to life. "Lieutenant Saotome, please report to flag bridge."
"Crap." Ranma sighed. "Just what I need, to show up in front of the Admiral still wearing my speed jeans."
"Better get there on the bounce."
"Lt. Saotome, reporting as ordered." Ranma didn't salute; his flight helmet was under his arm, and his head bare.
Admiral Grant nodded. "At ease, Lieutenant. Grab a chair."
"Yes, Sir." He stepped in, and stopped suddenly at the sight of a familiar face. "Brigadier." His eyes caught the two stars on each lapel. "I mean, General."
General Enomoto chuckled. "Hello again, Lieutenant. Keeping well?"
"Tolerably." Ranma sat down cautiously. "So where are ya sendin' me this time?"
"Somewhere familiar, for a switch." Enomoto glanced up at Admiral Grant. "The Lieutenant and I have a bit of a history, Admiral."
"Just kinda sorta," snorted Ranma. "Every time I see this guy, I get a new career. What this time? Tank driver?"
"Actually, that's surprisingly close. How's your security level, Saotome?"
"Three-A."
"This material is a bit higher than that. Codeword classification. Project PAINTED GLOVE."
Ranma rolled his eyes. By invoking the codeword itself, Enomoto had pretty much declared that Ranma was in. Or he was in deep trouble. "I'm bettin' I can't keep this file under my pillow, then, Sir?"
"Nor even in your quarters safe. For that matter, I can't even tell you about it right now - Admiral Grant isn't even cleared for PAINTED GLOVE." Enomoto set a thick file folder on Grant's desk. "This document contains all data on PAINTED GLOVE except for operational details. You'll get to read it once we leave tomorrow. I'd suggest finishing it before you arrive." Enomoto paused. "I do apologize for all the disruption I seem to cause in your career. But I think you'll enjoy this posting."
"Where exactly am I going, Sir?"
"Somewhere you've been before." General Enomoto grinned. "South Ataria Island."
October 18th, 2005
The C-2A Greyhound - so named, Ranma was convinced, because it flew like a dog - touched down on the runway and began its rollout. Ranma grabbed his duffel, and waited for the plane to finish taxiing, then jumped up and worked his way to the hatch. The wing-wipers didn't like it when he did things like jumping down from the plane's open door, so he waited until they had a staircase parked next to the door, and trotted down briskly. He was the only passenger this time around, so he paused at the bottom and glanced around.
There were few aircraft at this base, far fewer than the base appeared designed to support. And most interestingly, he didn't recognize any of them except a second Greyhound parked on the tarmac. One looked like an F-15, but many of the details were wrong - number one amongst which were its size, less than half the size of the fighter affectionately referred to by its pilots as the Starship. Another resembled the F-14, but the rake of its tailfins was much greater than that of the Tomcat, and the wing-gloves looked...wrong. A third looked like no plane he'd ever seen in the air, though its general airworthiness looked likely.
Given the contents of the PAINTED GLOVE file, though, he had a good idea what those jets were.
Ranma dug out his orders, then turned and dog-trotted towards Officer's Country. He could rubberneck later on. Right now, he still had a job to do.
"I'm not interested, Focker."
Ranma paused. The liquid accent; he'd heard it once before, the sounds and word flow that made Japanese sound so musical. This voice was speaking English, but it was just as musical. He turned, and spotted a woman in the green UN Ground Forces uniform. Her skin was the colour of chocolate, and her face quite pretty, at least when not scowling.
The man standing in front of her was the next best thing to two meters in height, long and lanky, with blond hair somewhat longer than regulation. Ranma spotted wings and silver bars, two each per lapel. Overall, the scene reminded him of one from long ago, just after graduation...
"C'mon, Claudia. They didn't mean anything. Just some people to party with, okay?"
"Fighter jocks party with other fighter jocks, not with strippers."
"Were they gettin' undressed? What makes you think they were strippers?"
"Because they were with you." Her tone took a bitter note. "Wish I'd avoided you when we first met." She added something else, but it was in a language he didn't understand, some dialect of French.
"Claudia--"
Ranma cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Sir."
The blond man turned to face him. Unlike the giant from that night so long ago, though, he grinned. "Hey, Lieutenant. Just transferred in?"
"Yes." Ranma nodded. "But I needed to speak with the young lady. Alone."
Focker shrugged. "Sure, no problem." He glanced back at Claudia. "I'll call you tonight."
"I'll hang up the phone." She turned to Ranma. "Lieutenant?"
Ranma nodded, and led her away from the hangar. As soon as they were out of earshot, he said, "I apologize, Lieutenant. Figured you needed an out."
"Thanks." She offered a hand. "Claudia LaSalle."
Ranma grinned widely, and grasped her hand. "Saotome Ranma."
She laughed, a warm and furry sound. "I thought so. Rescuing LaSalles seems to be a hobby for you, Saotome."
"If Lieutenant Commander Focker is being too...forward, I can straighten him out for you." Ranma shrugged. "Just didn't want to start pummeling people in my first half hour on base."
"Half hour? Have you reported in?"
Ranma shook his head. "Not yet. My orders are to report to the Base Commander, but these damn buildings aren't labelled."
"Well, Colonel Ross ain't the biggest stickler for protocol. We've got time for a cup of tea. Join me?"
"Sure. Why not?"
Apparently, the base had, despite its small size and secret nature, already gathered a civilian population. Given the massive construction going on in the immediate neighbourhood, it made sense; not everyone working on the giant alien ship could be military. One of the civilians was running a small Chinese restaurant. The food smelled good, the tea was excellent, and the proprietor, one Ling Saochin, was a cheerful fellow, greeting the two of them at the door.
"Roy Focker and I have a bit of a history," said Claudia. "He's actually a pretty good guy, once you get past the fighter jock bullshit, but he can occasionally be very...I guess the best word is inconsiderate. He doesn't stop to think things through, about how his actions might upset a person."
"I can understand that," chuckled Ranma. "I've got much the same problem, myself."
"Actually, you two, from my admittedly limited interaction with you, seem to be cut from the same mold. Confident, almost to arrogance, but with the ability to back up that confidence. Willing to help others out. Friendly and open."
"And with an ability to jam both our feet into our mouths, and have room left over for the leg?"
"Probably." Claudia chuckled. "Anyway, Roy spotted me originally in a formation, just before graduation at Annapolis. Roy was at Pax River, and was visiting the Academy. This was back in ninety-five, I think."
"I thought you were in Nerima in ninety-six?"
"Early ninety-six, if I recall. That was some years ago. Posted there right out of the Academy." Claudia paused for a cup of tea. "He tried to chat me up while I, and the rest of my class, were being herded around by our company commander." She chuckled. "Didn't get very far. I just kept my eyes front and ignored him. A year or so later, he showed up at Northern Army's HQ. I was there as a liason officer. I don't know why he was there."
She leaned back, a fond smile on her face. "He was so damn persistent. Kept giving me presents, always small, nicely wrapped. I think it was five years before I actually opened them; just kept tossing them in my desk unopened. It took some time before I saw past the fighter pilot bravado to what was underneath, and realized just what a great guy he really is."
Ranma frowned. "You didn't seem so friendly with him earlier."
"Well, you must realize that Roy has come a long way, but he can still be a right bastard at times. He loves female company. Part of the problem that I had with him was that he always had hangers-on. The first time I agreed to go out with him, he showed up with two other girls."
Ranma laughed. "That must have thrilled you to no end."
"Oh, I was not pleased, let me tell you!" She joined in his laughter. "So we've had this weird sort of on-again, off-again romance for the last ten years. I think we're starting to get past most of the crap, he's starting to clean up his act, and we might actually have a future." She sighed. "But then he goes and pulls a stunt like he did yesterday."
"What did he do?"
"I dropped down to the hangars to visit, and he had five girls all around him, laughing and feeding him drinks. Acting quite the clown for them." She sighed. "I can be fairly certain he wasn't trying to get into their pants; I think he knows that something like that would wreck our relationship completely. But he just..." She threw up her hands. "I can't believe he'd--" She gave an exasperated sigh, and leaned back. "He just doesn't think these things through. Didn't even stop to consider what I'd think of it."
Ranma hesitated, then quietly said, "Can I ask a personal question, Claudia?"
She chuckled. "This entire conversation has been rather personal."
"Do you love him?"
She paused. "I...think so. Like I said, underneath it all, he's really a great guy, and...well, there's nights I lie awake, thinking about him, wishing he could dump more of the act."
"Claudia, I wasted two years dancing around this sort of issue with my wife. When I finally admitted to her - and myself - how I felt about her...Well, three weeks after we were married, she died."
Claudia gasped. "Oh, my God."
"Terrorist bombing. Just so...random." He looked up from his tea. "One of my biggest regrets is those two years I wasted, because I couldn't tell her how I felt. You and Roy have wasted ten years now. Roy's a soldier. Worse, he's a fighter pilot; he faces more danger every day than Akane ever did." He leaned forward. "He could die tomorrow. If you love him, don't waste any more time."
"Colonel Ross will see you now, Mister Saotome."
"Thank you, Corporal." Ranma stood, pulled his cap onto his head - full dress uniform was called for meeting the base CO - and stepped into the BC's office. He saluted sharply. "Lieutenant Ranma Saotome, reporting as ordered, Sir."
"At ease, Lieutenant." Ross was a small man, wiry, with graying hair and a pencil-thin moustache. His voice was a bit nasal, and overall, he didn't project the image of a dangerous warrior. But his uniform was spotless, the creases all sharp enough to shave with, and the ribbons on his chest weren't for perfect attendance. "Just in from the Kenosha, I see."
"Yes, Sir."
"Major Rollins had some nice parting comments for you, Lieutenant. Natural feel for aviation, skilled pilot, perfect trap every time. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but you're already on the short list for our next slot for Captain."
"Really, Sir?"
"Yep. Of course, until we get two full squadrons, you won't be facing that board any time soon." Ross closed the file, and looked up. "Have you been briefed in on PAINTED GLOVE?"
"I've read the file, Sir. 'Combat aircraft designed for multiple environments, based on technology recovered from ASS-1.'" He hesitated. "It's worth pointing out, Sir, that I was one of the soldiers that led the initial expedition into the Visitor."
"Brevetted to Lieutenant for the operation. I know, Saotome. It's in your dossier. Siddown."
"Yes, Sir."
"Tea?"
"Thanks."
Ross rolled his chair over to the credenza behind his desk, and started building two cups. "This base is hosting the PAINTED GLOVE project. We're serving two roles. First, we'll be evaluating the experimental aircraft. Of the four designs being contemplated, we're to pick the one that best serves the roles we have in mind. In addition, in a year or two, we're supposed to be getting two more prototypes, for a slightly different role. You familiar with the American F-15 and F-16 aircraft?"
"Somewhat, Sir."
"Like the Eagle and Falcon, we intend two platforms, one larger one for heavy combat, and one smaller one to support the larger one in its role. The larger platform, which is currently code-named FIREBIRD, will serve as an interceptor and primary combatant. Milk?"
"No thanks, Sir."
"The smaller combatant, code-named THUNDERBIRD, will provide close-air support, Wild Weasel--" This was Air Force short-hand for the Iron Hand mission, Ranma's own specialty. "--and air superiority support for FIREBIRD in the interceptor role."
"Sounds like a good mix."
"I think so. Sugar?"
"No, thanks."
Ross rolled back over with two cups of tea. "Earl Grey. Hope that's okay, it's the only blend I like."
"Never had it, actually."
"We've considered you for the THUNDERBIRD platform, but we don't have any prototypes for it yet." Ross sipped his tea. "Your performance in both Wild Weasel and air superiority make it a good match for you. But for now, you'll be joining the FIREBIRD team as a test pilot."
"How many prototypes do we have, Sir?"
"Of the four designs we're evaluating, we have four birds each. Sixteen total." Ross clicked a key on his terminal, and the large screen on the back wall lit up. "This one, code-named Spectre, is by MacDonnel-Douglas, and shows obvious influence from their F-4 Phantom design." He clicked again. "This one comes from Northrop-Grumman, and is based on a Northrop prototype that didn't quite make it into service, the F-17 Cobra. The codename for this one is Rattlesnake."
"Looks like a Bug, Sir."
"Yes. MacDonnell-Douglas purchased the Cobra design and rebuilt it into the F-18 Hornet." He clicked again. "This one was designed by Stonewell-Bellcom, based on Grumman's F-14 design. Code-name is Valkyrie. We don't have a lot of hope for it; the variable-geometry wing design is more prone to damage and maintenance issues." He clicked again. "And this one was designed by Shinnakasu Industries of Japan, and is based off the old MacDonnell-Douglas F-15 design. Codename Phoenix."
"May I ask which one you favour, Sir?"
"Well, the decision is not my own. Of the four, I personally think the Northrop-Grumman design is our best bet. But the actual decision will be made by the general staff, based on the results of our test flight analysis."
"Which one will I be assigned to?"
Ross leaned back. "At the moment, we're down one pilot. Stupid bastard smashed up his car while drag-racing. He'll live, but we might just decide that he'll live as a civilian." Ross sighed. "As it happens, the vacancy is in the Stonewell-Bellcom team. Got any other questions?"
Ranma thought back to the blond Lieutenant Commander. "I noticed that some people here have non-regulation haircuts..."
"As long as you keep it neat, I don't care about hair."
"Oh. Good."
The Colonel's intercom buzzed, and he smiled. "Right on time." He clicked the intercom, and said, "Send him right in, Nancy." he released the button. "Team leader for the Stonewell-Bellcom team. You'll be reporting to him."
The door opened, and Ranma's eyes widened as the blond Lieutenant Commander entered. Ranma stood, snapped to attention. "Sir."
"Lieutenant." The Lieutenant Commander grinned. "I've heard a lot about you. You're supposed to be one of the best."
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, you're not the best. I am." He extended a hand. "Lieutenant Commander Roy Focker. Pleased to meet you."
Dear Lisa,
Hope you enjoy Basic. Seriously, don't let them run you out. That's what they're after, to try and make sure only the best get in. If you survive it, you've got little left to prove.
I've been given a new posting, and I can't tell you where it is. Security rules. In addition, they're gonna be reading my mail, because it is a very sensitive post. I think I can get away with telling you that I'm now working as [Censored for security reasons]. My new team lead, [Censored], is a great guy, even if we did get off on the wrong foot.
I've also met a new friend, name of [Censored for security reasons]. She's the sister of someone I met just after I finished Basic, and really sweet. You'd like her a lot. She told me that her brother [Censored] will be working with my team, when he's not posted seaward. It'll be good to see him again.
[Paragraph censored for security reasons]
Anyway, I can't say much, and they're likely gonna chop half of what I've already said out of the eMail. Drop me a line at my usual address, and they'll make sure it gets to me. Hopefully, they won't censor my incoming mail.
Warmest regards,
Saotome Ranma
