Chapter 12: Over the Rainbow

But here in this graveyard that's still no man's land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned

-Eric Bogle

Drunk in the gutter. A true return to form after having to clean up his act in Japan, Bishop supposed.

"F-fine!" he slurred at the huge backs of the two bouncers who had picked him up and tossed all 200 pounds of him out the door like a sack of potatoes. "I been kicked outta better establi-*hic*-shments than this!"

Having spoken his peace, he opted to lay there for a while, letting the cool sea breeze blowing off the harbour return him to his senses, if only slightly. It was a typical Saturday night on the Halifax waterfront, and he was certainly not the only inebriated serviceman about. Sailors on shore leave from the various commonwealth navies roamed the streets in droves, seeking alcohol and female companionship in equal measure.

He'd been here for a few days now, quartered in a cramped barrack room at the nearby navy base, and he was sick to death of the company at the officer's club. Sure, he could put on the airs of a gentlemen officer as well as anyone, but he never felt truly at home among them, being a farmer's son with a high school education while most of his fellows were upper-crust college boys.

Lifting his head to look down at his watch, he let out a groan when he saw that it was approaching 1:00 AM. The UN carrier had arrived in port yesterday, and he was supposed to report for duty at the dockyard where the massive vessel was moored by 0800 hours tomorrow. It was going to be a rough morning. He'd had no intention of going on a bender tonight, stopping in for quiet bite to eat at one of the many pubs that dotted the waterfront on his way to visit an old friend. A gang of Canadian sailors had already occupied the pub, however, and it wasn't long before one of them recognized him and insisted on buying him a drink. One drink turned into a many as the young man's comrades realized they had a celebrity in their midst, and soon he was joining them in the customary tone-deaf rendition of 'Barrett's Privateers'.

As he was stumbling back towards their table with another round of drinks for his new friends, he accidentally bumped into a British marine doing likewise, sending two armfuls of pints crashing to the floor. Before he could even lament the senseless loss of so many good beers, the equally-drunk Marine gave him a hard shove, to which Bishop replied with a gut-punch that left the uncouth Brit gasping for breath on the floor. Hit first and hit hard was a lesson he'd learned the hard way in his time. The marine's comrades sprung to his defence, and Bishop's sailor pals did likewise for him, leading to a brawl which the pilot was unjustly blamed for instigating, leading to his present predicament.

"God damn them all..." he drunkenly sang to himself as he managed to stagger to his feet, giving the bouncers a cheeky wave as he made his way up the street. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he continued to belt out the Stan Rogers classic as he stumbled his way down the waterfront.

"I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold!
We'd fire no guns, shed no teeaaaarrrs!
Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier,
The last of Barrett's Privateers!"

He could hear the same tune coming from just about every bar he passed, the unofficial anthem of the Royal Canadian Navy. He supposed he should head back to his quarters to try and snatch some sleep, but a nagging desire to complete the task he'd initially set out to caused his disobedient feet to instead carry him uphill, away from the harbour.

He was going to pay a visit to an old friend.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

Bishop snorted in derision as he read the inscription. Empty words written a hundred years ago by a posh Englishman who'd never seen, heard, or smelled a battlefield.

They were carved into the base of a marble statue that stood in the centre of a vast graveyard, which covered a grassy hill overlooking the harbour. It depicted a soldier, standing with his rifle held defiantly outstretched, facing south with his back to the twinkling lights on the water below. It commemorated the famous battle that destroyed the centuries-old citadel that once stood upon this hill.

It was a last stand that stood among the likes of Thermopylae in the history books; brave, but ultimately futile. Any Canadian units stationed in the maritime provinces were cut off during the opening stages of the war, forced to fall back to the east while the rest of the army withdrew to the north bank of the Saint Lawrence. The fighting retreat ended in Halifax, where they fought with their backs to the Atlantic, refusing to surrender and instead defending the city almost down the last man.

It was a damned waste of lives in Bishop's opinion. The city fell anyways, though it was a hollow victory for the invaders. What was left of the old city after second impact was utterly destroyed in the fighting, including the strategically important dockyard facilities. The defenders of Halifax became martyrs, an invaluable piece of propaganda to the Crown, driving recruitment at home and rallying international support. 'Remember Halifax' was the headline in every newspaper across the Commonwealth, whose contributions in supplies and manpower were essential in fueling the war machine that eventually recaptured the city in the final counteroffensives.

Status quo ante bellum. All for nothing, he thought as he turned to survey the rows upon rows of white headstones. They marked the final resting places of some 5,000 Commonwealth war dead. Most were casualties of the siege, though many others were Nova Scotians who fell on other battlefields across the country, and whose bodies were returned home after the war at the wishes of their loved ones.

He was looking for one of the latter, though he was dimly aware as he set off down the rows that he had no idea where to even start searching. The cemetery was unsurprisingly empty given the late hour; even the honour guards posted at the gate to keep out the riffraff, such as himself, were nowhere to be seen. He was alone with the dead. He supposed he should have been spooked at the thought, but instead he felt oddly at home. There were no vengeful spirits here, he knew. Just old comrades taking a well-deserved rest.

"Well, how do you do..." He stopped to read one of the headstones. "...Private McBride, age nineteen. Did you fall bravely with your face to the foe?" he asked of the silent chunk of granite. "Or was it stuck knee-deep in the mud, crying for your mother?" He'd seen enough young men die to know it was probably the latter.

"Well McBride, I hope it was quick and clean." With no answer forthcoming from the young soldier, he continued onward down the endless rows. At the top of each tombstone was a carving of an emblem. For the army's dead, they bore an image of an intricate maple leaf, while the those from the Navy had an anchor with a rope wrapped around it. Eventually, he came to a section of headstones emblazoned with the crowned eagle of the RCAF.

"Ah, Hank my boy, there you are!" he greeted his old pal as he finally found who he was looking for. It only took the inebriated pilot a half-hour's searching. "Mind if I sit here a while, ol' buddy?" he chuckled as he plopped himself down on the grass next to the headstone, identical to those around it save for the inscription.

Captain H.F. Hooker
10th April, 2004
Age 22

With a weary sigh, Bishop pulled a pack of cigarettes from his tunic pocket and lit one up, blowing out the smoke and looking over at Hank with a sardonic smile. "I'd offer you one, but these things will kill you, y'know" He gestured vaguely with the lit cigarette before taking another puff. "Sorry to disturb you this time of night, but I uh, I needed to talk to someone. Someone who'd understand."

He's been dead for over a decade, you fuckin' nutbar. Quit talking out loud before someone sees you and has you thrown in the loony bin. The logical part of his brain was beginning to return as he sobered up. He needed to be quick.

"Its been a... weird month, pal." He shushed his brain as he continued. "I got a new job, Japan of all places. I get to fly the Avenger again, though, and they pay me a shitload of money to do it. Pretty sweet gig if I'm honest. Of course, I went and got shot down. By an Alien. Long story. Anyways, aliens exist, and they're here to kill all of us. Well, those of us left, anyways." He couldn't help but have a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all as he said it out loud.

"Oh yeah, and the only thing we have that can go toe-to-toe with them are giant robots that have to be piloted by children for some goddamned reason nobody will tell me." His ironic smile fell as the simmering anger briefly boiled to the surface. "They're only fourteen. Fourteen for fuck's sake. We were young, but not that young."

There was no answer from beside him, so he assumed Hank agreed. "They're good kids, though. Shinji and Rei. Rei kinda gives me the creeps if I'm honest, but I mean, she's still just a little girl. Hell, nobody there's even bothered to teach the poor little bastards how to fight outside of a simulator. Remember our training? It was hell, but it needed to be to prepare us for what was coming." He shook his head as he remembered the weeks on end of constant abject misery. "Did you ever do that thing where they fired live rounds over your head while you belly-crawled under the razor wire..." He recalled then that Hank was never in the Army. "Oh yeah, you were a college brat, went straight to officer school. No crawling in the mud for you, eh?"

His old friend remained in silent agreement. It was nice not being argued with for a change. "I did a dumb thing the other day, you'd probably get a kick out of it," he said with a chuckle. "I gave my VC away to Shinji, the boy." He gave an annoyed look at the tombstone beside him. "So what if I barely know him? If you saw what that kid did out there, you'd have done it too... Besides, I only got it for saving your sorry hide. Still can't believe you went and died on me after I went to all that trouble..."

To his surprise, Bishop felt something warm on his cheek. He reached up to wipe away the tear, casting a furtive glance around to ensure that none of the living were around to see the shameful display of weakness. "...Selfish bastard."

He took a moment to collect himself, gazing up at the stars and savouring every drag from the rapidly shrinking cigarette. "Y'know, I was scared then." he continued in a subdued tone, looking back over at his silent companion. "...On that flight back I mean, while you were bleeding out in the back seat. And I'm scared now." He looked down at the grass at his feet, suddenly ashamed of himself. "I don't want to go back there, man. What we're up against... Well, I wish I'd never seen it. But I have to. I have to go back, because god help me, I care about those damn kids."

He wiped his eyes and cracked a sardonic smile. "Isn't that funny? I swear, those rugrats have more guts than I do, and I like to think I've got a lot. Or at least I used to. Remember? You constantly bitched and complained that I was going to get us both killed with the shit I pulled. I guess you were half-right in the end." He reached over to give the grass beneath the tombstone a pat. "Sorry about that by the way. You were always the voice of reason, I should've listened."

With a last puff on his cigarette, he crushed it out in the grass, and lay down on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, suddenly feeling an overwhelming weariness take him as he pulled the visor of his cap down over his eyes. "Hope you don't mind if I crash here, got to be up early tomorrow, and its a long way back to the barracks."

Tired as he was, though, his restless mind still wouldn't allow sleep to take him. Not yet.

"What the hell can I do, man?" he eventually asked with a yawn. "I got a feeling that things are only gonna get worse from here on in, and it's only a matter of time until one of those kids winds up like you. I-I'm just not sure I could handle that. I'm trying my best to help them, but for god's sake what more can I do?" He turned his head to the side to look right at Hank's headstone.

"How the hell do you prepare someone to go through what we went through?"

It was a fleeting and fitful sleep, and the pilot felt no more rested when the sun began to shine through his eyelids than he did when he finally drifted off.

Groaning irritably, he covered his eyes. "...Close the blinds, willya?" he mumbled to no one in particular.

He remained suspended in a state of half consciousness for a few moments, working up the courage to open his crusty eyes and face the almighty hangover that was inevitably waiting for him back in the land of the living.

He was dimly aware that someone was talking to him from outside his stupor, but he couldn't have cared less, until the sharp rap of wood on his skull forced the issue.

"What the..." He sat up with a start, immediately shielding his eyes from the blinding light with one hand and rubbing the side of his head with the other, where a welt was already beginning to form.

"You get off that grave, you lousy drunken bum!" a gravelly voice shouted at him, coming from a short figure silhouetted by the sunlight.

He already had a splitting headache, and the loud voice felt like an ice pick in his brain. "I'm not a bum..." he muttered, rubbing his temples. "...I just had a rough night- Ow!" His protestations were cut off by another whack from what appeared to be a cane, this time in the kneecap, the pain bringing him to his senses and filling him with a terrible anger at having been disturbed.

"I don't know who you are, or what the hell your problem is," he growled as he rose to his feet, fighting down a bout of nausea and rubbing his bleary eyes as he readied himself for a fight. "...But you've got about five seconds to fuck off before I shove that cane so far up your-" He stopped himself in surprise when his vision finally cleared enough for him to get a good look at his opponent. It was just an old woman.

She was utterly unmoved by the threat, defiantly glaring up at him through a pair of thick glasses. She was tiny, the top of her flowery hat barely reaching his chest, but seemed utterly unafraid of him. She had curly white hair, and wore a formal dress to go with her ornate headgear, no doubt on her way to or from a Sunday church service. In the hand that didn't hold the cane, the woman clutched a small bouquet of white roses.

"How dare you speak to me that way!" she admonished him, leaving Bishop's cheeks smarting in shame.

"I-I'm sorry ma'am, I-"

"Quiet, you!" She cut him off, her gravelly voice carrying a thick maritime accent. "By god, what's the world coming to, where young men can disrespect their elders and pass out drunk wherever they damn well please?" Bishop looked down at his shoes, feeling like he was being lectured by his own mother. "You're a disgrace to that uniform. My son didn't lay down his life for this country only to have its good name spat on by the likes of you!"

"Y-your son?" Bishop asked cautiously, before wincing in pain as the woman's cane came down hard on his toes.

"My son. The brave young man whose grave you saw fit to desecrate!"

Mrs. Hooker. "O-oh my god, I'm sorry ma'am, I-"

"I'll bet you're sorry!" The pint-sized ball of fury showed no sign of relenting. "I'd have you thrown in jail if it were up to me, but I suppose it's the fault of the guards for letting scum like you in here in the first place. Now, get out of here, and by god if I ever see you in here again, you'll really be sorry. Do I make myself clear, young man?"

"Y-yes Ma'am," he murmured, unable to meet her eyes as he turned to leave, his shoulders slumped and hands buried in his pockets. When he was a little ways down the row of headstones, he turned to look over his shoulder, watching as woman reverently laid the bouquet of flowers at the base of Hank's headstone, before kneeling with her eyes closed to say a short prayer. He continued to watch for just a moment too long, as one of the woman's eyes cracked open and caught him staring.

"What?" she asked irritably. He thought about trying to explain himself, but the only thing that could make him feel worse than he already did would be facing his dead friend's mother, who no doubt knew that he bore the ultimate responsibility for his death.

"N-nothing, Ma'am," he stammered as he again turned to leave. "I'm sorry," he added under his breath when he was out of earshot.

He thought he was free and clear, until the woman roared after him a moment later, causing his blood to run cold.

"Wait just a minute, you," she called, hurrying after him as best as she could manage. He thought about making a run for it, but figured he'd already disgraced himself enough for one day. He would take whatever was coming. He turned and waited as the cantankerous old woman limped right up to him, and without a word reached up to grab his chin, turning his head back and forth as she inspected his bemused face.

"...You seem familiar," she finally muttered as she released his chin, allowing him to take a step backwards.

Please god, no. "We've never met, Ma'am," he asserted, hoping to avoid the rapidly approaching disaster.

"Maybe not..." she continued, scratching her chin in thought, "But I've seen your face somewhere..." Her gaze fell from his face to his dirty, wrinkled uniform jacket, her eyes suddenly widening in recognition when as she saw the row of medal ribbons on his chest.

"...You're Bobby Bishop, aren't you?"

Fuck. "No Ma'am, I'm not." He turned to try and walk away, but she caught his arm and held it in an iron grip, spinning him to face her as she peered up at him with eyes that seemed to see right through his poor attempt at a lie. He again fixed his gaze on his shoes, unable to look at her face.

"I raised four boys, Mister Bishop. I know when I'm being lied to."

He silently nodded, working up the courage to meet her eyes. He was trapped, may as well face the music. "Yeah, I uh, I came to pay my respects to Hank last night, and I guess I had a few too many..."

To his surprise, there was no anger or hatred in her face. She just gave him a small smile and a gentle pat on the arm. "It's okay," she said softly, her demeanour completely changed. "I know you didn't come here to disrespect his grave."

She led the now thoroughly confused pilot over to a nearby bench, sitting with a heavy sigh and motioning for him to sit next to her.

"I'm sorry I bit your head off like that, but you know how mothers are," She continued as he accepted the seat. "We'll protect our babies right to the bitter end," she said gently, patting him on the arm. "I heard all about you in Henry's letters, and I hoped would get to meet you some day. To thank you for what you did for him."

Bishop was speechless. Did she not know?

"B-but, well, he's dead..." he stammered out, immediately regretting it.

To his surprise, the old lady cackled as she replied. "Yes, I'm well aware of that, Mister Bishop." She looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye. "But I know you risked your life trying to save him, and for that I'll be forever grateful to you."

Bishop shook his head. There was so much she didn't know, and it was probably better that way. He was perfectly prepared to leave it at that, to accept her unearned gratitude and be on his way, but then she asked him a question that he had no choice but to answer.

"Mister Bishop," she began carefully. "You were with Henry... at the end, yes?"

"Yes..." He knew this line of questioning would lead to a deeply uncomfortable place, but he couldn't in good conscience leave now.

"Well..." She continued carefully, "They never really told us... how he died."

"Oh."

"All they said was that he died of wounds received in action."

"That's... more or less accurate," he said, trying desperately to end the conversation there, but the astute old woman was having none of it.

"So as a favour to me," she implored him, taking his hand in both of hers, "...Would tell me, truthfully, what happened to my son?"

He met her eyes for a moment, before finally nodding slowly. She deserved to know, unpleasant as the truth was.

"We were scrambled early one morning to intercept a group of bogeys that had crossed the front line low and fast." He began, figuring if she ought to hear it from the beginning.

"Bogeys?" she asked, confused at the term.

"Unidentified aircraft," he clarified.

"Alert fighters, scramble, scramble, scramble."

The words rang out over the PA system at a base in northern Quebec, 200 miles behind the front line. There followed the blaring of the alarm klaxon, sending the QRA crews sprinting towards their aircraft. They knocked over tables and chairs as they quickly rose from their breakfast, each wondering if they had just eaten their last meal. When they reached the waiting jets, the ground crews hurriedly helped them into their G-suits and helmets, before following the pilots and radar officers up the ladder to the cockpit to strap them in as they ran through the startup procedures.

Soon, the still morning air was filled with the deafening howl of jet engines as four Avengers taxied out from their camouflaged shelters and made for the runway. Each aircraft bore a unique piece of nose art, and had a nickname painted in black letters across the top of the tail fins. One jet that had taken more than its fair share of battle damage was dubbed Spare parts, while another was named Lucy after the pilot's girlfriend. The lead aircraft bore an image of the grim reaper, and her crew had given her the name Queen Anne's Revenge.

They were all manned by crack crews, and it was only a few minutes before the flight was formed up and rocketing south over the endless forests. A ground-based radar station made contact and vectored them towards their targets, which had been identified as a flight of eight fighter-bombers. They were low and fast, likely on their way to hit some high-value target far behind the lines.

"Escorts?" Bishop heard his back-seater inquire to the ground controller

"Negative, looks like they're all one-elevens," the voice replied.

The ace cracked a small smile under his oxygen mask. The F-111 Aardvark was a strike fighter that specialized in low-altitude precision attacks, relying on its speed and terrain-following capabilities to avoid interception. They were fast to be sure, but the Avenger was faster, and they usually carried nothing but a pair of short-range missiles for self-defence.

"Alright boys," Bishop addressed his flight, "Looks like easy pickings. Let's play it cool, keep the radars set for a close-range scan so we don't scare em' off. Don't lock em' up until they're too far from the line to get away."

"Roger," came the reply from the various aircraft, and Bishop watched on the scope as Hooker set the system accordingly. The Avenger's long range pulse-Doppler radar was a double edged sword. It could lock on to a contact from over a hundred miles away, but if the target was equipped with a radar warning receiver, they would know they were being hunted, and would turn and flee before they could be engaged.

As they neared the intercept point, Bishop brought his flight down to 5,000 feet, spreading them out in a loose line-abreast formation. There was no indication of any trouble from enemy fighters, and this way they would be able fire a coordinated volley of missiles that would force the enemy formation to split up and evade. Any not destroyed by the initial volley would face a choice of either pressing on to the target alone, or fleeing to the south. Either choice would split them off from the herd, leaving them able to be hunted down one by one.

"Tracking," Hooker called from the back seat. "We're forty miles off their starboard, closing fast."

"Copy."

"I think they know we're here, formation seems to be spreading out."

"Rog. Everyone, clear to engage, call out your targets." Bishop announced to the flight. Hooker locked them on to the lead aircraft, and Bishop set the weapon selector to queue up one of the four Skyflash missiles mounted on the wing pylons. A small square on the HUD showed the location of his target in the distant sky, and he manoeuvred to centre it inside a wide circle that showed the field-of-view of the missile's seeker head. The Avenger's radar would constantly paint the target for the missile, guiding it all the way in so long as he kept the contact within that circle.

An instant later, the sky in front of the row of fighters was filled with trails of white smoke as the missiles left their launch rails with a whoosh to streak towards their targets. When Hooker gave him the word, Bishop pulled the trigger, and added his own to the volley of deadly projectiles. On the display in the back seat, the Radar operator watched the progress of their missile as it made its way to the target, unable to keep a smile from his face as he watched the hostile contacts scatter in a panicked attempt to evade that came far too late.

"Splash one!" he called out as he watched the dot of the missile make contact with the dot of the lead enemy aircraft, before both disappeared from the screen.

A few splash calls from the other Avengers confirmed a successful intercept, as did the fireballs now visible in the distance. The rest of the Aardvarks scattered, and Bishop cleared his flight to break off and engage the stragglers. His eagle eye spotted one that turned to the south and dropped to the deck, hoping to live to fight another day. Bishop gave chase, lighting the afterburner to try and close the range.

The Yank was good. Damn good. He'd steered into a hilly area, making good use of the terrain to mask his radar signature.

"Damn!" Hooker swore from the back seat. "I can't get a good lock, boss."

"Are we gaining on him?" Bishop asked, glancing down at the airspeed indicator.

"Yeah, but-"

"Keep tracking him then, and we'll nail em' with a sidewinder when we're close enough. Bastard's not getting away that easy," he said firmly. That jet was still loaded down with bombs, and it would be back to drop them on someone else's family if it made it home again.

"Okay, but we're coming up on the front. I think he's gonna make it across before we're in range..."

"Then we'll follow him."

There was silence between the two friends for a moment. Crossing the lines was strictly forbidden unless in force; it was considered suicidal on account of the constantly patrolling American fighters, and unlike the numerically superior enemy, the Canadians could not afford to lose aircraft and pilots. Especially not Avengers, and especially not him.

"Look boss," Hooker began carefully, "You know I've got your back no matter what, even when you go all psycho on me, but how's about listening to reason, huh? Just this once?"

Bishop thought about it for a moment, but only for a moment. The decision was already made as a moment later the scarred and torn-up earth between the lines rushed by below.

He was close now, close enough to see the flames of the American's afterburner as he briefly crested a rise before dipping into another valley. Flipping the weapon selector to engage the two IR-guided missiles mounted on the wingtips, he listened to the characteristic growling tone in his ear as the seekers activated and scoured the sky ahead for any source of heat to lock on to. The Yank just needed to slip up once, show his tailpipes for a split second and he would be dead meat. It was too good a chance to pass up.

"Sorry pal," he muttered to his irritated back-seater. "Maybe next time."

"He was right, of course. We got the bomber, but the bugger must have radioed for help right before he went down, because a pair of F-16s jumped us as we were trying to get back across the line."

Bishop cast a sideways glance at the old woman seated on the bench beside him. She was listening intently, interrupting him only a few times to ask what certain words like 'Sidewinder' and 'HUD' meant. Realizing he had now reached a point in the story that he'd tried very hard to forget, the pilot sighed and withdrew a cigarette from his tunic pocket, lighting it up before continuing.

"Last chance to remain blissfully ignorant," he said to the old lady between puffs. "It's underrated, honestly. There's a more than a few things I wish I was still ignorant of."

"Tell me." She said it without hesitation, her steady gaze never leaving him.

He nodded slowly. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed.

"Well, we put up a damn good fight, but the F-16 is a purebred dogfighter. Down low, it has almost every advantage." Bishop continued to watch the woman carefully for any sign that he should stop talking, but to her credit she remained stoic. "We could out-run them, but turning away would have made us an easy target for a missile, so we had no choice but to fight."

He gave her a blow-by-blow of the encounter, making sure to mention Hank's contributions as the lookout. In a close range dogfight, the radar operator couldn't do much to help other than act as a second set of eyes for the pilot.

"I threw that thing around the sky like I'd never done before, dropping flares the whole time. Must have been a hell of a sight for anyone watching from the ground. We dodged three or four missiles, and I even managed to get my last Sidewinder off at one of the bastards. It missed, though, and while I was worried about the one, the other managed to manoeuvre for a good shot. Hank saw it coming, and I turned to evade, but it was too late."

He shook his head sadly, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. "If I'd have turned away a half-second sooner..."

"If wishes were fishes, we'd all cast nets in the seas," the old woman said gently, placing a hand on his trembling arm. "What's done is done Mister Bishop, it's not worth fretting over what could have been."

The pilot looked down at her for a moment. Mrs. Hooker was taking it surprisingly well. She was a tough old bag, to be sure.

"Well, we almost got away from it," he continued. "the missile passed under us as I rolled away, but the proximity fuse detonated under the nose."

It was an awful moment, hearing and feeling the fragments tearing through his aircraft's skin, the control panel going dark and then bursting into flame, and worst of all the wet ripping sound and the throttled cry of pain from the back seat.

"The nose landing gear sits in its bay just under the cockpit, it caught most of the shrapnel, otherwise we'd have both been killed outright. Enough got through, though..." He stopped to eye the old woman critically. "...Are you sure you want to hear the rest?"

She nodded stoically. "I used to be a nurse. I can take it."

"Fair enough." He gave her a nod of respect. "...Hank- er uh, Henry's legs were, uh... shredded, I guess you'd say, by the shrapnel coming up through the cockpit floor. I ordered him to eject, but there was no response, so I figured he was either unconscious or in shock. Probably both." He looked down at his burn-scarred hands. "Either way, I knew he was hurt bad, but I could still hear him breathing over the intercom. We were on fire, but I still had the flight controls, and the yanks must have been low on fuel because they didn't stick around to confirm the kill. So, I decided that for as long as he was still breathing, I'd head north and try to land somewhere."

Bishop averted his gaze then from the old woman, looking out impassively over the graveyard. "I figured I owed him as much, seeing as I was... responsible."

He waited for a scolding from his shriveled companion, figuring by now that she must have come to the same conclusion, but she remained silent as he pressed on.

"I jettisoned the canopy to try and get some relief from the cockpit fire, and well, I'm sure you know the rest. We limped back across the lines, and made a belly landing in field not far beyond. There were some Australians dug in nearby, and they came rushing over with a medic. Wasn't much they could do for poor old Hank except tie a couple of tourniquets around what was left of his legs and give him a hit of morphine. Then they loaded us both up in the back of a truck and got us to a field hospital."

The pilot buried his head in his hands as remembered the stink of that godforsaken place. "They amputated his legs not long after we got there, but the wounds were already infected by then. He put up a hell of a fight over the next few days, but he'd simply lost too much blood..." He trailed off, hoping the old woman could guess what happened next.

She nodded slowly, tears starting to well in her eyes. Taking his hand, she asked him a final question.

"Did he suffer?" she asked in a breaking voice.

Bishop had sworn that he wouldn't leave anything out, that he would tell her the whole truth and nothing but. In this case, however, he decided that the truth would do more harm than good. She didn't need to hear that her son had spent his final days in unending agony, delirious from fever as he constantly moaned in pain in the hospital bed next to him.

"He went peacefully in his sleep," he said semi-truthfully. One night, the tortured moans from the next bed over suddenly stopped, and didn't begin again. "...And I'm sure his last thoughts were of his family."

The words sounded hollow to himself, but thankfully the old woman seemed willing to believe him. "Well," she said after a moment of silence, taking a deep breath. "...Thank you for being honest with me, young man."

She smiled up at him through her tears and patted his hand. "...And I want you to know that I don't blame you."

As he made his way down towards the harbour, Bishop didn't know how to feel. He had been forgiven. Forgiven by someone who had every reason to hate him even more than he hated himself. Not only that, but the old woman insisted that he walk her back to her humble house a few blocks from the cemetery, where she fed him what he figured was just about the finest breakfast he'd ever eaten.

"My husband and two of my boys are buried here," she'd said over his protestations as she tugged him by the sleeve through the rows of headstones. "...And the other two moved out west to work in the oilfields. It would be a joy to have someone to take care of again."

He was already running late by that point, but she correctly pointed out that he was in no condition to report for duty. His uniform was filthy and wrinkled from his night on the ground, and he was in desperate need of a shower and a shave. So he walked her home, and graciously accepted when she offered him the use of her shower to freshen himself up.

The woman certainly knew the business of being a mother. He found his uniform waiting for him, clean and perfectly pressed when he got out of the shower, and the tantalizing smell of frying bacon had him hurrying towards the kitchen while he was still buttoning his shirt.

Pancakes, bacon, fried eggs, sausage, hash browns, and an honest-to-god freshly brewed cup of coffee, as opposed to the swill the navy served at the officer's mess. Life didn't get much better in his estimation. The lonely old woman clearly missed having a big family to cook for, but Bishop's hangover-induced appetite almost made up for their absence.

Over breakfast, he'd spilled his guts to her about everything that was troubling him. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because he still wished he could speak to his own mother one more time, or maybe it was because he desperately wanted to avoid the topic of her son's death. Whatever the reason, he flagrantly violated his oath of secrecy and told her everything, and then asked her the same question he'd posed to her son's silent tombstone the night before.

Now, having profusely thanked the old woman for her kindness and bid her adieu, he mulled over her answer as he made his way along the waterfront toward the dockyard.

"Well I can't speak from experience as a soldier," she eventually said after thinking on it for a while. "But as a mother, I can tell you that you can't protect them forever." She gave him a knowing smile, but her eyes were full of sorrow.

"...Sometimes children need a bit of tough love to prepare them for the real world. I know you want to shield them from having to go through what you boys did, but it sounds like that ship has already sailed, so you need to prepare them the same way you were prepared. If no one else is going to do it, then you need to toughen them up, teach them how to fight and how to win. Tell them honestly about what it's like out there, and show them how to survive it. Stop treating them like children, and start treating them like soldiers."

Treat them like soldiers. Harsh advice from such a sweet old woman, but he knew deep down that she was right. Much as he hated the idea of robbing those kids of their innocence to turn them into killers the way the army had done for him, he knew that it had to be done if they were to survive. They'd won so far mostly by pure dumb luck, which may win battles from time to time, but sure as hell did not win wars. He resolved that he would do whatever he could to ensure their next battle would not be won not by luck, but by skill, discipline, and esprit de corps. That's what won wars.

That was all half a world away, however. The pilot's most pressing concern at the moment was the blinding sunlight, which further exacerbated his already splitting headache.

God, what I wouldn't give for a pair of sunglasses. He glanced towards the myriad of shops lining the waterfront, figuring one of them must sell them. It was a very different place than it had been last night. The roving bands drunken sailors were replaced by slow-moving herds of tourists, and the seedy bars and strip joints had long since closed up to allow the many fashionable shops and restaurants to open for business.

Glancing down at his watch, he saw that it was now approaching 10:00AM. He was already two hours late, so he figured a quick stop couldn't do any more harm, and ducked into the next clothing store he passed by.

It was a small boutique that seemed to carry mostly women's wear, but there was thankfully a display of unisex sunglasses next to the counter, where a redheaded teenage girl in a yellow sundress was engaged in a heated argument with the clerk. From her slightly accented English and the few German curses sprinkled in her speech, he wrote her off as just another European tourist, and payed her no mind as he stepped past her to examine the selection. With a shrug, he selected a pair of mirrored aviators and put them on, examining himself in the mirror.

He couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of himself. With his immaculate uniform, clean shaven face, and now the ridiculous sunglasses, he looked like some douchebag 2nd Lieutenant who'd just got his wings and desperately wanted to call attention to the fact. He took them off and tried on a few other pairs, but none fit his face as well as the aviators.

Eh, so what if I look like a tool. I've earned the right. Putting them on again, he turned to get in line behind the girl. The unfortunate clerk was still enduring a string of verbal abuse from the irate teenager, and much to Bishop's dismay, seemed to be the only employee in the store. He thought about intervening, but decided to instead wait it out. How much longer could she go on for?

He regretted his decision when, after five solid minutes of arguing, the girl showed no signs of relenting.

"But the sign says all this stuff is on sale!" she whined, gesturing to the pile of clothes on the counter in front of her, while the exasperated cashier wearily shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but if you actually read the sign, you'll see that the sale ended yesterday, I have to charge you full price..."

"That's ridiculous! If the sale is over, you should have taken the signs down. That's false advertising, and I'm not paying full price for this junk!"

Then piss off already, Bishop thought to himself. Lowering his eyebrows in annoyance, he loudly cleared his throat and made a show of tapping his foot and checking his watch.

His breath caught in his throat when the girl whirled to face him. There was a striking resemblance to... No. Her hair was a much more vibrant shade of red, and the girl's eyes, though a close match in colour, held none of her kindness. Instead, they held an unwavering fury that reminded him of... well, himself. Those burning eyes now locked firmly onto him.

"...What!?" She demanded irritably of him.

Not about to be intimidated by some teenage tourist, Bishop replied just as irritably. "Look Miss, I enjoy berating cashiers as much as the next guy, but I've got places to be, so..." He pointedly tapped his wristwatch. "...Could you maybe hurry it along here?"

That didn't get the reaction he'd been expecting. The girl took a step closer to him, taking a wide stance with her hands on her hips as she looked up at him defiantly. "Excuse me, arschloch," She jutted a finger up at the dumbfounded pilot's face. "But if I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Until then, I suggest you mind your own damn business."

Arschloch!? Did she just call me an asshole? Before the increasingly angry Canadian could utter an indignant response, the girl had seemingly forgotten him, again whirling to face the cashier to continue demanding her discount. Oh no you don't, you little whelp. I'm not done with you.

"Hey!" he snapped in his best drill sergeant's voice, which much to his satisfaction seemed to give even the little firebrand pause as she again turned to face him.

"Where the hell do you get off speaking to people like that?" he demanded of the girl, taking a threatening step closer and curling his lips into a snarl. "Now I'm in no bloody mood to take lip from some entitled brat, so shut your trap and get moving, or so help me god I'll..." He trailed off, not sure what exactly he could threaten her with.

She seemed unmoved by his scolding, so he knew he'd look like a fool if he didn't come up with something credible. He couldn't hit a little girl, tempting as it may be, and he suspected no amount of lecturing would improve her manners.

Luckily, before the issue was forced, a man's voice from the store's entrance drew both his and the girl's attention.

"Whoa whoa whoa," a disheveled-looking Japanese man with a ponytail and a few day's growth of stubble hurried towards them, dropping his heavy load of shopping bags as he arrived beside the girl, who seemed to be delighted to see him.

"What's going on here,?" he asked the girl in heavily accented English, before turning to look at Bishop with an anxious expression. "...Is there a problem, officer?"

Officer? Bishop's face broke into a broad grin. With his blue uniform and mirrored shades, he could certainly see how someone who didn't know better might have mistaken him for a cop. Hooking his thumbs in his tunic's waist belt, he did his best impression of the stereotypical sheriff.

"Weeelll..." he drawled with a wry smile to the girl, who for once seemed to have nothing to say, "We seemed to have had a little misunderstanding here, isn't that right, young lady?"

She gave him an absolutely poisonous glare, but the stranger silenced her with a reproachful look before she could speak. Bishop was conscious that imitating a police officer could land him in serious trouble, and was careful not to explicitly threaten her with a ticket or arrest which he had no actual authority to follow through with.

"You seem like a reasonable man, so I'll tell you what sir," he addressed the scruffy man directly. "You have your... Daughter?"

"Ward," he corrected the pilot. Bishop nodded, having learned not to make assumptions.

"Right, sorry. Have your ward pay what she owes without creating any more of a disturbance, and I'll leave the matter at that. Deal?"

The man nodded vigorously. "Yes, thank you officer, and allow us both to offer our apologies..."

"Bullshit!" the girl could bite her tongue no longer, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "I'm not apologizing to him, and I don't think he's even a cop. I mean, he doesn't even have a gun-"

"Asuka." The man cut her off with a note of finality, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently but firmly guided her back to the cash register. "We are guests in this country, and I expect you to behave as such." Bishop eavesdropped as the scruffy foreigner switched to Japanese to lecture his dejected charge. She grunted an irritated response as she paid for her clothes and handed him the shopping bags, which he hefted along with the others he'd left on the floor. "...And remember what I told you about not wanting to draw attention to ourselves?"

The pilot raised an eyebrow as he pondered that last part, watching the pair as they made their way back out into the morning sunshine. The girl turned to stick her tongue at him right before they disappeared out the door, gesture that he returned in kind once she was out of sight.

"Over the Rainbow..."

Bishop read the name aloud, printed in giant letters on the wall of metal towering in front of him.

"...What a stupid name for a warship."

"Well, technically sir, it's a peacekeeping ship." Th younger man standing at his side corrected him without looking up from his clipboard.

"Right..." the pilot replied with a roll of the eyes. "And I suppose all those fighters up on the flight deck carry puppies and kittens instead of bombs and missiles."

The UN official who'd met him at the gate seemed unwilling to indulge his attempt at humour, giving him a baleful look before directing his attention back to his paperwork. Bishop decided he may as well get down to the business at hand, then.

"Anyways," he pressed on, "I'm looking for an RCAF officer, Captain Anderson, he's supposed to have some jets for me."

The official simply nodded and pointed with his pen towards the far end of the wharf from where they were standing near the bow of the great ship. "Yeah, and he's looking for you. Pretty peeved from what I've heard. Head down that way and you'll find him and your airplanes. Can't miss em'."

"Thanks..." He didn't care for the tone in the UN man's voice, but Bishop had neither the time nor the inclination to do anything about it, instead setting off down the massive concrete platform in the direction he'd indicated. The wharf was a frenzy of activity as the floating city took on the staggering quantities of supplies needed to sustain its 6,000 citizens. Pallets of every conceivable type of foodstuff were lifted by crane up onto the flight deck, while a seemingly endless parade of smaller crates and boxes were wheeled up the various gangways on trolleys.

The navy docks were too small to accommodate the carrier, so it was instead moored at the harbour's main cargo terminal. As such, stacks of shipping containers were also constantly being moved to and fro by the huge boom cranes and by specialized trucks into the adjacent railyard. It was behind one such wall of containers that he finally found what he was here for, and it was truly a strange sight.

There, lined up on the wharf as neatly as if they were on the flightline of an airbase, were eight Avro Avengers. He half-expected to see his own Queen Anne's Revenge sitting there among the old fighters, though he knew she was still gathering dust at the war museum in Ottawa. NERV had upped their order from the original six on his advice, both to provide a replacement for his lost aircraft and to have a spare to cannibalize for parts if needed. He could immediately tell that they had been in storage for quite some time: they still wore a mottled three-tone green camouflage on their upper surfaces, a measure applied during the war to help them blend into the forests they were usually based from. Those retained in service afterwards were returned to a more conventional matte grey paint scheme, which told him that these birds had not flown for at least a decade.

And I've got about three weeks to make them airworthy... It was a tall order, but reckoned with the full support of the Carrier's maintenance department, it might just be doable. He not only had to make them airworthy, but also had to select one to modify with an arrestor hook and catapult launch bar to asses the feasibility of carrier operations, something to do with the new basing idea for the aircraft that Takao's people were working on. He hadn't been filled in on the details, but the engineer had promised to phone him up to brief him fully once the plans were finalized.

Maybe they want to park a carrier in that lake... A few weeks ago he may have dismissed the idea as impossible, but he'd seen an awful lot of impossible things since then.

He had no more time to worry about it, as a short, stocky officer in an Air Force uniform hurried towards him from the direction of the parked aircraft.

"Major Bishop?" the ruddy-faced officer called as he approached, stopping to offer the pilot a sloppy salute when he was in front of him.

Bishop eyed him for a moment before returning the salute, noting the lack of pilot's wings and absence of any medal ribbons. A desk jockey through and through. "Captain Anderson, I presume?"

"Yeah, logistics officer at fourteen wing out of Greenwood. Nice of you to show up, Major," the stout man said sarcastically as he handed Bishop a clipboard with a thick bundle of documents attached. Bishop took the clipboard and made a show of examining it.

"...Have you forgotten how to speak to a superior officer, Captain?" he asked evenly without looking up from the document. "If so, I'll remind you." He looked up and was gratified to see the uniformed bureaucrat squirm. "You will address me as sir, and you will use a respectful tone of voice. Clear?"

"Y-yes sir," he replied meekly.

"That's better. Sorry for keeping you waiting, but I had important business in the city and I was detained longer than expected. Now, what am I looking at here?"

Having been knocked down a peg, the stout man cleared his throat nervously before continuing. "W-well sir, that's the transfer order for the aircraft. If you wouldn't mind signing at the bottom there, they'll be officially in your custody as a representative of NERV."

"Just like that?" Bishop was amused at the thought that he could just scribble his signature as though he were signing for a package, and suddenly be in possession of a few hundred million dollars' worth of fighter jets.

"Yes sir, just like that. Once that's out of the way, we can begin loading them on the ship."

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"With the cargo cranes, sir," the Captain pointed overhead to one of the huge cranes mounted on tracks that ran up and down the wharf. "We already used them to get them off the transport train without issue."

Bishop gave Anderson a nod of approval as he signed the document and returned it to him. Insubordinate as he may have been, the man was at least competent at his job. "Very well, Captain. Hop to it."

With a much smarter salute this time, the Captain turned and hurried back towards the row of fighters, barking orders to the various dock workers and mechanics milling about, eager to please the short-tempered pilot.

As they set to work, Bishop strode over to the nearest aircraft for a closer look. Ducking under the nose, he reached up into the forward landing gear well and pulled out what appeared to be an old bird's nest.

Aside from the occasional evidence of animal habitation, however, the jet seemed to be in decent enough shape. Plenty of dirt and grime to be cleaned, but it seemed to be mechanically and structurally sound. Emerging out from under the nose, he gave a chuckle as he examined the aircraft's nose art. It was painted with a shark mouth and a pair of beady eyes in the style of the famous 'flying tigers' of World War 2. As he turned to look down the line, he noticed for the first time that all of them were painted likewise. It had no doubt become a fad in whatever squadron these aircraft had served with.

"Quite the paint jobs you guys gave these things." Bishop turned at the sound of a deep voice coming from behind him, where a tall, thin man was ducking under the nose of the aircraft he'd just been inspecting. He wore a short-sleeved khaki uniform with navy blue trousers.

"Lieutenant-Commander Espinoza, UN Naval forces," he introduced himself as he approached, reaching out to shake the pilot's hand in a firm grip. "I've been looking for you Major, I'm head maintenance officer for the air wing aboard CVN-75. Heard you were joining us for the trip to Japan."

"Yeah, so I've been told." The man seemed to be about his own age, with slicked back black hair and a thin moustache. Wracking his brain, he recalled that the UN 'peacekeeping' fleet used the US navy's rank structure, in which an LCDR was equivalent to a Major. No salutes or 'sirs' necessary, then. Good thing, since they would probably be spending a lot of time working together in the coming weeks.

"Well, Lieutenant-Commander Espinoza," Bishop said amiably as he turned to stand beside the man as they looked down the row of aircraft. "What's your professional opinion on getting these old wrecks flying again before we get there?"

The naval officer flashed him a confident grin. "The air wing has about twelve-hundred maintenance personnel at our disposal, and we've been ordered to make it our top priority. We'll make it happen."

The scale of these ships and the sheer number of people they carried never failed to impress him. Nimitz class carriers such as the ex Harry S. Truman carried a complement of up to 90 combat aircraft, probably about as many fighters as the peacetime RCAF could send up, and had to fuel, arm, and maintain them all a thousand miles from land if necessary.

"Good to hear," the pilot replied absently. Looking over at him, he noted the insignia on the shoulders of Espinoza's uniform. At the top of his sleeve was a circular patch bearing the blue and white UN insignia, while below it was a much smaller badge showing the stars and stripes. "American, eh?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "...Did you fight?"

Espinoza nodded slowly, the confident smile falling as he answered. "Yeah," he replied in a low voice that told Bishop he wasn't lying. "I was an Ensign aboard the Enterprise when the Brits sank her."

The pilot's eyebrows shot up in recognition. "Huh, small world." he gave the Yank a sympathetic smile. "My squadron was stationed up in Newfoundland when it happened, we flew escort for the Tornadoes that night. One of my first combat missions, now that I think about it."

He remembered well the night of February 1st, 2003. The American carrier was operating off the coast of Newfoundland, unaware that a detachment of British strike jets armed with anti-ship missiles had recently been deployed to the island, waiting for just such a juicy target to come within reach. Two whole squadrons of Avengers went out to clear the skies ahead of the daring Brits, who managed to penetrate the task force's defences to slam half a dozen 500-pound warheads into the pride of the Atlantic fleet. She was left a furiously burning wreck, her crew forced to abandon ship into the churning waves of the frigid North Atlantic on a black and moonless night, making for one of the worst maritime disasters in history. Of her 5,500 strong complement, less than a thousand made it home, with many survivors of the missile strikes freezing to death before they could be rescued.

"We were a pretty green outfit then, and if it's any consolation to you, Enterprise's Tomcats tore us a new one when they found us. About of a third of us weren't at breakfast the next morning." Their first proper dogfight was a rude awakening to the young Canadian pilots, but they distracted the American fighters long enough for the Brits to finish their job.

"Yeah, I guess it is," his companion said, his smile returning.

"No hard feelings, then?" Bishop asked, withdrawing his pack of cigarettes to offer one to the American, who accepted and tucked it into his breast pocket for later.

"I don't know, that water was so damn cold that I still shrink up just thinkin' about it," he replied with a chuckle. "Buy me a drink sometime, and we'll call it even."

The two veterans shared a hearty laugh, and Bishop could tell that they'd get along just fine, despite fate having made them enemies all those years ago. They set off down the row of fighters, observing as the first one was lifted from the wharf to the carrier's flight deck, before turning their attention to making a preliminary to-do list of what needed to be done to make them airworthy.

As Bishop was looking down at his clipboard, busily writing down the items being rattled off by the maintenance officer, his concentration was broken by a shrill voice. It was one he'd heard before, but it wasn't until he saw the yellow sundress from across the wharf that he remembered where. The girl from the clothing store had spotted him, and was now shouting something unintelligible as she stomped towards him.

"Oh Christ, here she comes..." Espinoza moaned from his perch up on the wing of one the Avengers.

Bishop lowered his clipboard and looked up at the man with a raised eyebrow. "Wait, you know that girl? Who the hell is she?"

The American didn't answer, and instead quickly backed away from the edge of the wing and out of sight.

"Hey, wait-" The confused pilot was cut off by the girl, who was now close enough to address him directly.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" she shouted, stopping a few metres from him and striking the same defiant pose she had in the shop.

"Uhh..." He decided to play dumb. "About what, Miss?"

"Do you think I'm stupid? You're not a cop at all, you're a soldier!" she said in an accusatory tone, "And the last time I checked, imitating a police officer is a serious crime." She flashed him a smug grin, thinking she had him cornered. "Now, I want an apology, and it had better be sincere. If it's not, I'm going to report you to the real police, soldier boy."

"I'm not apologizing for squat." He sniffed and turned up his nose in a show of derision. "I don't know where you got the impression that I was imitating an officer of the law," he said stubbornly, "But I did no such thing."

"Oh please," she said, clearly not buying the idiot act, "Kaji called you 'officer', and you didn't correct him."

"But I am an officer, see?" he smiled innocently as he tugged at the cuff of his tunic, showing the black-and-white stripes that indicated his rank. "I assumed the gentleman was just being respectful. If he mistook me for a police officer, that's on him, not me."

"B-but, you-"

"I what?" he asked, taking the offensive. "Asked you to stop harassing a cashier? Did I threaten to write you a ticket or arrest you? Because that's what a cop would do."

"No, but..." The girl was growing flustered, her face turning increasingly red as she was forced to verbally give ground.

"But what?" He beckoned her to finish the thought. "Go on, I'll wait, what proof do you have that I was imitating a cop?"

She crossed her arms, not beaten yet. "I'll testify before a court about what I saw, and so will Kaji if I ask him to."

"Ah, so it's your word against mine?" He clucked his tongue in disapproval. "You're not in Kraut-land anymore, little girl, and whose word do you think carries more weight in this country? A tourist's? Or a decorated war hero's?" He shook his head. "Nope, not a good plan at all. And as for your friend with the ponytail, he seemed eager to leave the matter alone, not sure he'd appreciate being dragged back into it..."

"I..."

"Enough." He cut off the girl, whose face was now as red as her hair. She was working on his last nerve, and it was close to snapping. "I don't have time for this. Now, I may not be a cop, but I am an officer of the King, upon whose property you're currently trespassing. This is a restricted area, Missy, and I don't know how the hell you got in here in the first place, but it's well within my authority to order you to leave." He pointed back in the direction she'd come from. "So, are you going to show yourself back to the gate, or do I need to call the MPs?"

The girl looked ready to explode, and Bishop was worried that she may burst a blood vessel. She was quite literally shaking with rage, her hands balled tightly into fists at her side as she seemed to mentally will him to drop dead. Mercifully, though, she didn't say anything more, instead turning and sulking off, muttering to herself in her strange language. She didn't go off in the direction of the gate, but instead seemed to be headed for the one of the gangways leading up to the carrier.

Whatever, he thought as he turned away, just glad to be rid of the redheaded pest. The Marines guarding the gangways would stop her from getting on the ship. But what the hell was she doing here in the first place? The dockyard was a fair distance from the main tourist attractions in the city...

From up above, he heard snickering, and turned to see that Espinoza had returned to his perch on the wing. "And what exactly is so funny?" he asked dryly. "I could have used your help there, by the way. What are you, scared of a little girl? No wonder you guys lost the war."

Ignoring the jab at his country's honour, the American instead just smiled and shook his head. "You reeeaaally shouldn't have done that," he said cryptically.

"Oh? Why not? I thought I handled it pretty well, all things considered..."

Espinoza nodded his head towards the ship, and Bishop turned just in time to see the girl pass the guards at the bottom of one of the gangways without incident before disappearing up into the belly of the great metal beast.

The American officer burst out into laughter as he saw the pilot's brow furrow in confusion. "Don't you worry," he chortled, "You're gonna find out real soon."

A/N: Admittedly got a bit sidetracked with our hero's misadventures in Halifax, but it was a whole lot of fun to write, and I think it'll set up the next part of the story nicely. Regardless, hope it was an enjoyable read, and thanks again for all the kind words in the reviews!