#starboard outer hangar

[sw5w]

Trade Federation Battleship

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 00:26:38

[writing-with-whiplash]

Stealing More Than Kisses

“Stealing More Than Kisses”

Hey guys! This is a fanfic of @jangofctts amazing clone oc Sweets! Go check out her awesome clone oc’s by searching for “sunburst squadron” on her blog and also check out all the other amazing fics she has! Sweets is her creation. I do not own his character, I’m just writing for him.

Sweets x mechanic!reader

Word Count: 2450 

Warnings: clone discrimination, stealing, mild swearing, fluff, gender-neutral reader

This is my first fic, so I’d appreciate any constructive comments and reblogs! Have an awesome day!

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When you had been assigned as the new mechanic to the Sunburst Squadron, you had no idea why all the others before you had quit. That is, until you met the wild bunch that you affectionately called the Sunburst Boys. Although they were loyal and dependable soldiers, and your closest friends, you couldn’t help but think of the squadron as a bit chaotic. Between the death-defying trick flying of the pilot Kamikaze and the reckless altruism of the trooper Blue, it’s no wonder that you and Commander Blanche hadn’t had heart attacks trying to keep the squad together. Or in your case, keep the ship together, which brought you to your current predicament. 

“Kamikaze!” you hollered across the hangar as the Sunburst Boys unloaded from their battered spacecraft. “What did I tell you about bringing the ship back all banged up?” 

Kami turned sheepishly toward you, raising his hands in defeat. “Couldn’t help it,” he shrugged. He must’ve been exhausted to not send a snippy quip your way about the ship’s state. In fact, all of the soldiers looked worse for wear, their shoulders sagging under the weight of their brightly colored armor.

 You decided to take it easy on him today. There would be more opportunities in the future to drag him for his dare-devil piloting. “You boys go rest. I’ll take care of the scrap pile,” you huffed. Kami rolled his eyes and slumped past you toward the barracks. The rest of the squadron followed suit, although one trooper lingered by the ship’s ramp. “What’s up, Sweets?” you asked softly, hoping to not startle the shy sharp shooter. Sweets lifted his eyes from the floor to meet your own, his teal bangs plastered to his forehead. He offered a half-hearted shrug and quickly shifted his eyes back to the floor. “Was the mission rough?” you asked, although you could already guess the answer. Sweets was normally quiet, but this time seemed different. The trooper nodded at your question and shook his head when you asked if he wanted to talk about it. “You just wanna hang out with me while I try to fix whatever Kami’s done to the ship this time?” The ghost of an amused smile danced across Sweets’ lips as he nodded again.

Sweets had been the first trooper of the squadron to grow on you when you first started out. Out of the rambunctious bunch, he was the youngest and quietest. While his brothers preferred to bond through roughhousing and swapping insults, Sweets preferred to just be near you. He didn’t talk much, but he loved to listen to you talk or hum while you tinkered on the ship. The quiet sharpshooter also loved to bring you little gifts that he picked up while on missions--a rock here, a bead there, a little figurine from a market on some backwater planet or another. You knew that not everything he brought back was...purchased, per say, but you didn’t mind. Everything he gave you was small and heartfelt and it’s not like the soldiers were paid anyway. If these boys were risking their lives on the frontlines to protect the entire galaxy, then you figured they deserved to swipe the occasional small item without worrying about what anyone would say. Maker, you knew they deserved so much more than that. 

Recently, Sweets had been bringing back items that felt more personal than random rocks. He always had a knack for figuring out what you liked best. Not long after mentioning offhand that a particular type of stone had caught your eye in a jewelry shop, you found a pendant in the same stone in your tool box. When you talked about your favorite kind of candy that you hadn’t been able to find in a while, a few pieces of it appeared in your locker. Sweets had always been such a sweetheart to you and you had begun to fall for him as soon as you started working with him. You didn’t want to ruin your friendship by telling the shy soldier that you had feelings for him. Instead, you simply enjoyed his company as he hovered around your work station in the hangar.  

The ship was truly a mess. Carbon scoring painted the hull that, miraculously, had stayed intact despite heavy damages. The edge of the starboard wing was crinkled and battered--there was an endless amount of reckless maneuvers Kami normally pulled that would cause that kind of damage. You clicked your tongue and shook your head, making a list of all the replacement parts you would need to buy for it. A wiring harness here, a set of gears there, a few durasteel panels damaged beyond repair. You had a lot of welding to do. The hangar had most of the replacement parts you needed, but working on such a small base on an Outer Rim planet left you with a few things to be had. Ah well, you grinned to yourself, all that meant was a chance to stretch your legs at the local market and swap meet. 

“Hey, Sweets,” you called from beneath the ship, scooting toward him on your creeper seat. “Do you want to run to the market with me for some parts?” 

Sweets’ eyes lit up as he nodded enthusiastically, making you chuckle at him and smile. Had you looked at him a little closer, you would have seen the quiet blush spread across his cheeks, highlighting the heart tattoo beneath his eye as he averted his gaze. The sniper couldn’t find the words to say it aloud to you, but he would go with you anywhere in the entire galaxy, just as long as he got to spend time with you.         

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The marketplace was bustling when the two of you arrived, the sounds of vendors hollering and the scents of various foods wafting through the crowds. The sea of customers and travelers parted around you as you wandered from stall to stall, quietly stretching your parts-run as long as possible. Although you could make it through a crowd just fine, you knew that many of the onlookers gave you a wide berth on account of the helmeted clone trooper who hovered over your shoulder at every stall you stopped at. 

Sweets always kept his helmet on during your frequent market outings, telling you that he preferred to see rather than be seen, but secretly he just wanted to watch you without you noticing. He loved the way your fingers danced across the items you touched, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at friendly vendors, the way you fidgeted while waiting in line or running parts numbers in your head. All of these little observations over the past several months had allowed Sweets to figure out all the little quirks about you and the interests you never verbally divulged. He knew by the way that you tilted your head and looked at the ground while talking to a vendor that you were about to turn down his price on some wiring. Just as he predicted, you walked back toward him empty handed, a small frown pulling your soft lips down. 

“If I were allowed a bigger budget for replacement parts I wouldn’t mind buying from that guy, but I just don’t have enough to cover it.” Sweets nodded sympathetically as you shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to keep going on down the line. What a shame that we’ll have to spend so much more time in the market, rather than sitting around the base.” You winked at Sweets, earning a quiet chuckle from his helmet’s vocoder. 

The two of you wandered aimlessly throughout the market, striding slowly by stall after stall of alien fruits, handmade items, and spacecraft parts that weren’t on your shopping list. You had to practically drag Sweets away from a booth boasting several species of small cage pets, knowing that he would try to pocket one of the adorable, squishy-cheeked rodents. Just as you turned to tell him not to get in trouble with the vendor, a particular booth caught your eye. 

“Ooh, look at this one!” The pet vendor didn’t have the chance to chew Sweets out as you grabbed the trooper lightly by the arm and pulled him to a booth full of wood bead jewelry. 

Sweets was once again grateful for the cover of his helmet, as his face flushed at your contact. He leaned slightly into your touch, craving more, but, in your intense focus on the beads, you didn’t notice his change in demeanor.    

“Look at this one,” you murmured to him, plucking a bracelet from the top of a large pile of wooden jewelry and displaying it in your hand. Your fingers swiped over the central bead, a little carved heart the same color as Sweets’ tattoo. “It’s you as a bracelet,” you beamed, staring directly into Sweets’ melting gaze, although his eyes were hidden behind his dark visor. Sweets swore his heart completely stopped when you looked at him like that, but all he could do was sheepishly nod. You had already turned around, grabbing a near identical bracelet, this time with the heart painted in what Sweets knew was your favorite color. “We should get matching ones.” 

The old lady running the booth finally made her way over to you after you said that, eyeing you with suspicion. “Can I help you, dear?” she asked flatly. You noted how she only addressed you, almost refusing to look at the soldier standing beside you. 

“Yes, my friend and I would like these two bracelets here,” you offered, already fishing the credits out of your pocket.

The old shopkeeper huffed. “Honey, this fella here ain’t your friend. He’s a soldier. A clone,” she sneered, arching an eyebrow at him. “He’s only here to shoot droids and serve the Republic, not buddy up with you. And I know for a fact that he can’t even pay for his own bracelet. Just shameful.” 

You tensed and grabbed Sweets’ hand as he attempted to back away from the woman. Anger boiled in your stomach, threatening to spill out of your mouth. That old vendor had no right to speak about any soldier like that, especially not in front of one. Not in front of Sweets. You tossed the bracelets back onto the pile with a little more force than necessary. “Well if that’s how you feel about the men giving their lives to make sure that you can sell your cheap jewelry and bitch about them, then I don’t want to buy from you anyway.” You squeezed Sweets’ hand lightly with your own shaky one and turned to leave. 

Before the rude shopkeeper could say anything, a small boy ran up to the booth screeching, “Nan!” The old woman cast one last seething glare at you before plastering on a smile for who appeared to be her grandson. 

The instant she turned her back on you you felt a surge of boldness. You quickly snatched the bracelets you had thrown down and rushed back in the direction of the army base, sniper in tow. He had definitely begun to rub off on you. When you felt that you were far enough away from the booth you had just stolen from, you slowed down, heart still racing. Sweets pulled you into the alleyway between a noisy cantina and a bustling restaurant. Nobody seemed to notice the pair of you as Sweets pulled his helmet off and cupped your cheek. Your breath hitched at the contact and your eyes flitted up to his soft gaze. 

“Are you okay?” he murmured. His other hand grabbed your wrist, rubbing small circles into the soft skin there. 

“Yah, I’m fine,” you whispered breathlessly. “I just can’t believe she’d say something like that! That little--” Sweets cut you off with his thumb against your bottom lip.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled. You watched forlornly as his normally bright eyes cast down and away from you. His shoulders began to curl inward and you placed your free hand against his chestplate. 

“No, it’s not. I’m so sorry that you had to hear that. You don’t deserve that. None of you do. You deserve so much better than that.” You sniffed as your voice cracked, throat tightening. Sweets dropped your wrist and leaned closer at your words. You took the opportunity to pull the first bracelet out of your pocket and slide it up between his vambrace and glove. “I hope you actually wanted this,” you chuckled, “because it’s yours now. I’m not taking it back.” 

Sweets rolled his eyes and stepped even closer, his face mere inches from yours. “I love it,” he breathed. The words fanned across your face and you pulled yours even closer to his, noses just brushing. Eyes closing, Sweets dipped his mouth down to press against you. You returned the kiss softly, your lips slotting gently together. 

A fire lit within your chest at that first soft, slow kiss. You gently twisted your fingers through Sweets’ mop of curls while he pulled you close to his chest. You caught his breath between your lips when you parted mouths, panting slightly and pressing the tip of your nose to his. Sweets gazed into your eyes with such warmth and admiration that your knees almost buckled, but he was there to catch you. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing a quiet “thank you” into your ear. You responded with a kiss to his cheek and a sweet smile in his hair. 

Neither of you wanted the moment to end. Days could have passed and the suns would have gazed down upon the two of you standing in the alleway, never parting. But, eventually your comm buzzed with orders to return to base. Reluctantly, the pair of you headed back, hand in hand, wearing matching stolen bracelets, and feeling the happiest you had ever felt in your life. Sweets snuck in one more kiss before replacing his helmet, smirking slightly at your flustered giggle. If this was the kind of response you got from getting Sweets gifts, then you thought you’d be okay with stealing more little things for him. Afterall, he had already stolen the best prize in the galaxy in his opinion: your heart.        

[airmanisr]

Handley Page Halifax II ‘W1048 / TL-S’ by Alan Wilson Via Flickr: c/n unknown Built 1942 and initially delivered to 102 Squadron at Topcliffe on 27th March. Transferred to Linton-on-Ouse based 35 Squadron on 9th April. Flown to Kinloss 23rd April in preparation for raid against the Tirpitz battleship. Departed Kinloss on first operational flight on 27th April, but did not return. During her attack on the Tirpitz, she was hit by flak and the starboard outer engine, fuel tanks and wing were set alight. The pilot landed the aircraft wheels-up on the frozen Lake Hoklingen, Norway. The crew escaped, all but one reaching Sweden and returning to the UK. The aircraft sank through the ice within 12hours. The wreck was found and identified some 29 years later. She was raised on 30th June 1973 and by the end of August was safely at RAF Henlow. It was decided to display the aircraft largely unrestored (a good decision in my opinion as the airframe remains in very original condition) and arrived at Hendon in 1982 to feature in the new Bomber Command Hall where she remains on display today, although the hall has since been unexcitedly renamed as Hangar 5. RAF Museum London. Hendon, Greater London, UK 3rd October 2020

[lockefanfic]

Callsign

War never changes.

There were times, though, when you found it difficult to believe the pilot of this particular plane could live up to such a fearsome lineage. You glance up at the closed canopy, and the name emblazoned there in gold paint, along with her infamous callsign: LT. E. JUNG - “KAR-”

“You want to tell my why the fuck the starboard nacelle is still acting up on shallow banks, Chief?”

Even before you turn to face the speaker, you knew who it would be - her voice was one you’d grown to know well over your past few years aboard the UNS Busan. It was a wonderful, musical voice with a hint of a countryside accent, and you knew personally from more than one drunken karaoke session in the pilots’ lounge that she had a great singing voice - unfortunately for you, she usually used that voice to whine about something on her plane.

You sigh once more before you turn and face her, steeling yourself for yet another confrontation.

“I’ve already told you, Lieutenant Jung - the readouts don’t display anything out of the ordinary. I’ve taken that thing apart and put it back together twice, and couldn’t find any issues in the parts or the way they go together. It’s all in your head.”

You turn away from her and continue to walk down the sleek fuselage of the fighter, your fingertips once again tracing its outer shell the same way an owner would touch a close pet. Your fingertips lightly graze its anti-radar, anti-cyberwarfare, anti-everything skin, as though apologizing for the way its pilot treated it.

“It’s all in your head, Lieutenant!” she corrects, following closely behind you, anger still prevalent in her tone. “All I’m asking for is for my goddamn bird to be able to bank without sounding like it’s got fucking spacelung.”

“I’ll get someone to give it another look, but I’m telling ya, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Another glare. If she weren’t so intensely beautiful at the same time, you’d think she was about to explode.

---

The F-121 Raptor III was a thing of beauty.

Its sleek lines and curves gave it the impression of a hawk or eagle, always crouched, muscles tensed, ready to leap into the sky at a moment’s notice to swoop in on its unsuspecting prey and snatch it up with its talons before flying off somewhere to feast. In years gone by, the previous versions of this warplane did just that, dancing in the endless blue of Earth’s sky, swooping in with guided missiles and rotary cannons instead of talons - every bit as dangerous as the birds of prey that were its namesake.

The Raptor III carried on the legacy of its forefathers - but the vast darkness of space was its playground now, and it did its hunting not with talons or missiles, but with focused energy weapons and kinetic projectile accelerators. Laser beams and gatling guns, in other words.

The theatre and weapons of war have changed, but some things never do. In some long forgotten text someone wiser than you once put perfect words to that sentiment: war; war never changes. 

In the early 21st century it was long thought that fighter pilots were on their last legs. Drones and AI were the future, they all said, and soon pilots would be reduced to sitting on their asses thousands of miles away from the battlefield, controlling their planes with joysticks and keyboards, looking for all intents and purposes like they were playing the fanciest (and most expensive) video game on Earth instead of remote piloting multibillion dollar aircraft and dropping very real, very destructive bombs on the other side of the planet.

But networked drones, it turned out, could be hacked. 

And so despite the thousands of years of collective human technology and the billions of credits that each of these modern day hawks took to make - they still needed pilots.

Gradually, as hackers and anti-drone cyberwarfare became more and more prevalent, pilots found themselves taking back to the skies. The human brain, afterall, couldn’t be hacked; at least, not yet. And so, a full two centuries after the first F-22 Raptor fired its weapons in anger, the newest version of it still needed a pilot. Without it, this magnificent creation, the very pinnacle of human technology and advancement, was only so much useless metal trash. Just as the knights of old turned domestic farm horses into fearsome weapons of war, so the knights of today turned these magnificent machines into instruments of destruction.

War never changes.

There were times, though, when you found it difficult to believe the pilot of this particular plane could live up to such a fearsome lineage. You glance up at the closed canopy, and the name emblazoned there in gold paint, along with her infamous callsign: LT. E. JUNG - “KAR-”

“You want to tell my why the fuck the starboard nacelle is still acting up on shallow banks, Chief?”

Even before you turn to face the speaker, you knew who it would be - her voice was one you’d grown to know well over your past few years aboard the UNS Busan. It was a wonderful, musical voice with a hint of a countryside accent, and you knew personally from more than one drunken karaoke session in the pilots’ lounge that she had a great singing voice - unfortunately for you, she usually used that voice to whine about something on her plane.

You sigh once more before you turn and face her, steeling yourself for yet another confrontation.

“I’ve already told you, Lieutenant Jung - the readouts don’t display anything out of the ordinary. I’ve taken that thing apart and put it back together twice, and couldn’t find any issues in the parts or the way they go together. It’s all in your head.”

You turn away from her and continue to walk down the sleek fuselage of the fighter, your fingertips once again tracing its outer shell the same way an owner would touch a close pet. Your fingertips lightly graze its anti-radar, anti-cyberwarfare, anti-everything skin, as though apologizing for the way its pilot treated it.

“It’s all in your head, Lieutenant!” she corrects, following closely behind you, anger still prevalent in her tone. “All I’m asking for is for my goddamn bird to be able to bank without sounding like it’s got fucking spacelung.”

“I’ll get someone to give it another look, but I’m telling ya, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Another glare. If she weren’t so intensely beautiful at the same time, you’d think she was about to explode.

“...Lieutenant,” you finish, turning away once more to follow the fuselage of the plane towards its rear. When you reach the rear of it you give it one last pat on its vectored thrust outtake.

“I swear to god, all you grease monkies do around here is dick around on your PlayStation 22s while I’m up there flying in a bucket of bolts-”

You turn immediately on your heel and face her.

“Don’t you dare call her a bucket of bolts… Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Jung seethes - her nostrils flare, her eyes widen, and her cheeks puff up; but she still looked intensely adorable, like some anime girl from the ‘flix come to life. If she were trying to look intimidating or angry, she was failing. Either way, you’d had enough with her demands, and you begin to walk away towards the crew offices adjacent to the hangar.

“We’re not done here, Chief!” Lieutenant Jung shouts after you, the loud clang of her flight boots on the hangar deck telling you she was stomping her way behind you, “You’re gonna tell me what the fuck it’ll take to get my bird flying smoothly, or I swear to god I’ll take this straight to the CAG!”

“Go ahead,” you say with a dismissive wave behind you, “the CAG owes me from poker last week. I wonder what side he’ll take?”

Lieutenant Jung lets out a wordless, frustrated sound leave her throat as you push open the door to your office. She stomps in after you and shuts the door.

Then she turns, drops her flight helmet on the floor and grabs you by the face with both hands before crushing her lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.

It was wrong on so many levels - she was a pilot and you a crew chief, she was an officer and you were enlisted, she was a spacer and you were born on Earth - but there was no denying the passion that existed between you. The intensity of it only flared up immediately after she flew CAP or went out on sortie, returning to the Busan all hopped up on pilot stimms and adrenaline. All she wanted after each flight was a shower, a beer, and your cock between her legs - and not necessarily in that order, and sometimes even at the same time.

Both of your pairs of hands work with a frenzied pace at each others’ clothes - her long, dainty fingers working the buttons of your overalls while your paws, still greasy with engine oil, work on the straps and buckles of her flight suit. It was a race she won more often than not; pilots obviously wore a ton more equipment on their persons than deck chiefs. And so while she had succeeded in getting the top half of your overalls off, you had just finished getting her flight rig undone.

She shakes off the heavy webbing from her shoulders, and she takes it upon herself to start to unzip the flightsuit zipper at her collarbone.

“You need to get faster at that, Chief.”

“You need to wear less, Eunji.”

The response is a smile at your use of her first name - a smile that is so dazzling it made the stars you’d spent so many hours staring at on the observation deck look pale by comparison. In your quieter moments, alone in bed together on those rare occasions when your off-duty hours matched, you’d mentioned once that you thought her callsign should be “Sunshine”; to match that thousand watt smile of hers. She’d giggled it off and said that pilots didn’t choose their callsign; it was given to them by other pilots. She’d said “Sunshine” sounded stupid, and not threatening or deadly the way pilot callsigns were supposed to be.

Nonetheless, when you gave her a small necklace with a small golden sun on it for her birthday, she wore it every day since, right next to her dog tags.

The necklace shone now in the artificial light of your office as she strips out of her flight suit, revealing a sweat soaked white tank top beneath that clung to her form like a second skin, and the delightful absence of a bra beneath it. Her skin, her perfect, vanilla skin, shines faintly with a sheen of her sweat, making her glisten. Her nipples poke invitingly from her chest, plain to see beneath the thin material of her tank top.

You can’t wait a moment later, and you give her a brief but passionate kiss before diving into her neck, planting kisses on the softness there, enjoying the taste of her sweat on your lips and tongue. She lets a soft, musical sound escape her lips - she had a great singing voice, but now, when the sounds escaping her are wordless gasps of lust and need, her voice sounded utterly sublime.

You reach a hand to her side, enjoying the feel of her tight, toned midsection before quickly reaching up her torso to fondle her left breast. You enjoy the feel of her soft mound in your hand and the rapidly hardening nipple poking through her tank top, and you smile against her neck even as her voice fills your ears with yet another wordless sound of pleasure.

You are content to spend a few more minutes playing with her body, enjoying the feel of her melting into your hands and mouth, but she is impatient, needy, still high from the adrenaline of her recent flight; she needed more, and needed it now.

She grasps the bottom of her tank top before pulling it over her head, leaving her naked from the waist up aside from the shiny metal of her dog tags and the gold of her sun pendant. The sun hangs a little lower than the dog tags, resting between her small, round breasts, and you smile at the symmetry of it.

“Stop staring and suck on them, Chief,” she says, with the same tone as if she were giving you an order.

“Right away, Lieutenant,” you answer with a mocking tone. She opens her mouth to answer, but the breath is stolen from her lungs when you bring both hands up to her naked breasts, squeezing both before capturing her left nipple in your lips. You involuntarily take a few steps forward, and soon you are pressing her against the closed door to your office. She sighs softly, wrapping her arms around your neck and pushing her chest out, standing on her tiptoes to make it easier on your bent back - all in an effort to give you better access to her wanton, needy body.

She loved it when you sucked on her breasts; nothing got her off quicker, got her more in the mood. She loved it when you drifted a hand between her legs, loved when you ate her out; but nothing got her as hot and bothered as when you played with those small, round, perfectly shaped mounds, and the perfect, tight little nipples atop each one.

“Smaller tits are more sensitive,” she’d told you once, and from the way she gasped and writhed and quivered with each lick and suck and nibble you placed on her breasts, you were inclined to believe her.

But you wanted more, wanted to put her in her place for the way she told you off in the hangar in front of your entire deck crew - even if you thought you did a pretty good job of standing up for yourself. She was so bratty sometimes, so needy, that it satisfied you to no end whenever you had your way with her behind closed doors. She couldn’t behind her rank when it came to sex.

You tear your mouth away from her chest, eliciting a groan of disappointment from the pilot. Her eyes glazed over and half-lidded with pleasure, she grasps you by the shoulder before turning you around and pushing you against the door to your office, resulting in a louder crash than you were expecting. A small part of you hoped no one happened to hear it, but a larger part of you couldn’t care less, not when Lieutenant Jung drops to her knees, peels your dirty overalls off your body, and gives your hard, stiff shaft a lick from base to tip.

It was such an erotic sight - the haughty, proud, cocky pilot on her knees with a cock on her lips - that it drove you insane each and every time you saw it. You reach down and run a hand through her hair, grazing her cheek. Her lips are busy planting soft kisses on your hard shaft, but her eyes tell you need to know about what she wanted.

“Fuck my face, Chief.”

Another soft kiss, another long, slow lick of your cock.

“...that’s an order.”

You were never one to defy orders - especially not ones like this. And so when the lieutenant takes the head of your aching, stiff shaft inbetween her lips and braces herself against you with her palms flat against your thighs, you prepare yourself to execute the order you are given.

Slowly at first, but soon building to a quick pace, you slide your shaft in and out of Lieutenant Jung’s needy mouth. Your hands grasp the back and side of the pilot’s head as you fuck her mouth, her tongue swirling devilishly all over your shaft with each entry and exit. 

“Mmmmffmfm,” she mumbles, the sound sending wonderful vibrations onto your cock as is slides in and out of her slick, hot mouth. 

You gasp, involuntarily, at the pleasure that is quickly building at your core, and you tear your eyes away from the delicious sight in front of you and try to focus on something, anything else to keep from cumming too soon. But the desire to retrieve some measure of revenge for the way she treated you outside closed doors, the way she was so bratty and demanding out in public - it drove you to fuck that mouth of hers a little harder, a litte rougher than you were expecting. There was some perverse satisfaction to be found in taking a mouth that was usually filled with complaints and filling it with cock.

Eunji got off on it too - on the roughness and disregard for her general needs that you showed during sex. Perhaps she got off on the reversal of power and her newfound helplessness. Maybe she just loved rough sex. Either way, you weren’t one to complain.

For long, beautiful minutes you stand there, thrusting your hard cock in and out of Lieutenant Jung Eunji’s mouth. After awhile she looks up at you with those large, round eyes of hers that were somehow so innocent and so mischievous all at the same time - and for you that was it, that was the end of your patience. You had to have her, had to have all of her.

You practically tear the girl’s needy mouth from your shaft, her lips still sucking tightly on your cock as she lets out a little whimper of disappointment. Her whimper soon turns into a wanton gasp, however, when you pull the previously haughty pilot from her knees on the floor and push her towards your desk.

Eunji knows what this is, knows what you intend to do, and the pilot quickly pulls down her flightsuit until it is past her round, full ass of hers and halfway down her thighs. 

Lieutenant Jung Eunji’s ass was on another level - round and full and tight, it was perhaps her most attractive feature, aside from that blindingly bright smile, of course. Her thick pilot’s flightsuit did little to hide her assets, and you caught yourself more than once watching, dumbfounded, as her wide-set hips swayed and swung when she walked away from you, those  round cheeks so full, so inviting, so perfectly shaped it all too often made slack-jawed fools out of you and every other man on the hangar deck.

She didn’t wear panties, either. Too hot and sweaty in the cockpit, she told you once, and they had a tendency to ride up into her nether regions every time she twisted and turned in her seat. The sight of that perfect little ass and wide hips of hers, naked now, uncovered by some flimsy piece of underwear, all sweaty and tight…

You want to be inside her, want to fill the needy little girl with all of you, but you manage to gather enough self control to tease her, make her beg for it. Her display of arrogance out in the hangar, the gall she had to call you out for her plane’s perceived problems - it made you want to retaliate.

You press yourself against her, your stiff shaft, still moist with her spit, pressing between the two large, full cheeks of her ass, your hands reaching out to caress those wide hips of hers. You give her a few small strokes, enjoying the feel of her perfect butt cradling each side of your cock.

“Do you want this, Lieutenant?” you ask, mockingly.

“Fuck yes, Chief.”

“I don’t know if I want to fuck you, given how much of an annoying little brat you’ve been.”

Eunji lets out a gasp of equal parts frustration and need.

“I.. fuck, Chief! Just put it in me.”

“No. Beg for it.”

“What?”

“Fucking beg for this cock, Lieutenant.”

Eunji moans, a sound that would have been soft and musical were it not loaded with lust and need.

“Mmmm fucking stick your cock in me, Chief. Fuck me with that cock. Fuck me and make me moan and make me cum all over your dick. Fuck me until you fill me with cum and-”

Eunji’s words are cut off as you thrust yourself inside her, her small body pressed forward against the desk. When she regains her breath she lets a long, drawn out moan of pleasure hiss from her lips as she adjusts to the full, stiff shaft that she has suddenly been filled with. Her pussy is soft and warm and slick and you want to let out a gasp of your own, but you hold back - you didn’t want to give her that satisfaction.

You start fucking her, with hard, smooth strokes, her drenched pussy having no problem accepting each thrust into her tight little body. Normally you would have slipped inside her slowly, given her time to adjust to you before slowly ramping up the speed and depth of your thrusts - but not today, not when she was acting the way she was. Not when she needed to be put into her place.

“Oh, fuck, fuck that feels good…. Oh fuck, you’re so fucking big inside me,” Eunji gasps, having found the breath to vocalise her pleasure now. Her hands search for something on the desk to grasp as an outlet for her pleasure, but she fails to find anything, and she settles for digging her fingernails as deeply as she could into the wooden surface.

Fucking the cocky pilot from behind on your desk would have been enough, and you would have gladly continued doing so until you filled her with the cum she so desperately wanted - but you wanted more, wanted to truly put her into her place.

You push on her sweaty back with an open palm until her torso is flat on the desk, and taking her right arm, you bend it behind her and hold it against her back by the wrist. You take her left arm with your own and, grasping it by the wrist, use it to pull the rest of her body back as you thrust forward with your cock.

It is a position of pure power and dominance, and you watch delightfully as Eunji squirms and writhes beneath you on the desk, helpless to do anything but take your cock as you fuck her hard over your desk. You worry slightly about hurting her, but the gasps and moans and filthy words that soon escape her mouth convince you she’s more than okay with the way she is being treated.

“Fuck yes, Chief… ohh, unggh! Fuck me, fuck me just like that… fuck me!”

“Do you like it, Lieutenant? You like being bent over a desk and fucked like this?” you spit, your words punctuated by the sound of your hips slapping against hers.

“Fuck… fuck yes! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me… Fuck me however you want. Fuck me like your personal slut!”

The sight of the haughty young lieutenant, so proud and cocky out on the deck, reduced to a writhing, hot, wet mess as she is bent over and fucked roughly - it is enough to drive you insane. The pleasure quickly building in your loins as you fuck the mewling woman worries you with the speed of its build up.

“Fuck… you’re so fucking… tight, Lieutenant. Fuck… you’re gonna make me fucking cum soon.”

“No!” Eunji hisses, surprising you. She squirms roughly, her strength taking you by surprise as she wriggles out of the hold you have on her body. She pushes back against you, and your shaft slips out of her, glistening and dripping with her juices.

Eunji practically rips her flightsuit off, tearing the one piece suit off her long, sweat-drenched legs, leaving her only in her white tank top, which she peels from her torso. She hops quickly onto the desk, spreading her legs and grasping your slick cock with her right hand and quite literally using it as a handle to pull you between her thighs.

“You’re going to fuck me, Chief, and you’re going to fuck me until I cum first,” she hisses, the intensity on her face hard to deny - her eyes are tense and filled with intent and need. There is an anger in those dark brown pools as well, as though she is upset with the possibility that she could be denied the release she so desperately craved.

She points the head of your shaft at her splayed, pink lips of her pussy, and with her hands on your hips she pulls you towards her until you fill her once more with your cock.

You find yourself almost immediately fighting a battle you weren’t sure you could win, thrusting in and out of Eunji’s slick, wet pussy as she lies back on the desk, her perfect, sweaty, almost naked form laid out for you, each thrust of your cock resulting in a delightful shock to her body, giving her round breasts and full thighs a soft bounce each time.

She has so quickly reversed who held the power - mere seconds before you were the one in control, fucking her submissive little body from behind as she begged and pleaded for it; now you were the one trying your best to hold on as she took what she needed from you.

Eunji reaches down between your bodies to quickly find her clit. She swiftly begins to swirl a fingertip around the sensitive bud - even as your cock slips and in and out of her body not so far away. You spend a few wonderful seconds watching as your slick, glistening cock fucks her needy, hot pussy - and her fingers, so close to her splayed pink lips, rubbing her tight bud. 

You raise your head from the wonderful sight to find that her eyes have been locked on yours the whole time. There is need and lust in those eyes, nothing more, nothing less.

Her mouth is frozen in an open “o” as she lets breathless gasps and moans escape her lips, her brow furrowed, her eyes pleading for more and more and more. Her fingertips increase their pace between her spread thighs, and her free hand claws at your wrist, her nails digging almost painfully into your skin. Inside her, she is tightening and pulsating around you, her slick walls wrapping themselves even tighter around your thrusting cock…

“Oh… oh fuck, I’m gonna... fucking cum,” she spits, her tone almost afraid, almost fearful of the amount of pleasure that was about to come. And you are thankful, because you were so deliciously close to that same peak yourself. Her fingers work quicker and quicker against her clit, swirling her slick juices around her sensitive bud as she comes closer and closer to the edge.

“Cum for me, Eunji,” you reply, all thought of rank cast aside - this was just two people pursuing pleasure, and nothing else mattered.

“I… Oh, I...oh!” Eunji gasps, and suddenly her body stiffens and quivers and shakes atop the table as her orgasm overtakes every inch of her being. The sight of her as she cums is the last straw for you - her pulsating, tightening pussy overcomes the last of your resistance and you follow Jung Eunji into the bliss of orgasm, driving yourself as deep as you can inside her before you release stream after thick stream of your thick, hot cum into her needy pussy.

Eunji draws you close as you cum, letting a soft, almost vulnerable moan escape her open mouth with each stream of semen that leaves your cock and splashes against her walls. She had a filthy mouth during sex, loved to tell you in vulgar detail what she wanted to do or wanted done to her. You’d heard her moan and gasp of lust and need plenty of times, but it is the soft, vulnerable little whimpers when you cum inside her that you treasure the most.

For long seconds you stay inside her as your respective orgasms wind down, both of your bodies recovering from the exertion with heavy breaths and gasps. Eventually you slip out of her, and a not insignificant stream of white semen drips from the splayed lips of her pussy.

Eunji watches the cum drip out of her with interest, biting her lip. She always loved it, always wanted you to cum inside her for this reason. And you loved watching her watch.

“Job well done, Chief,” she says, eyes still glued to the mess you made inside her as it drips onto your desk. 

A few minutes pass as you both clean up after yourselves. You retrieve a few tissues from your desk which Eunji uses to clean up the mess between her thighs as you both slowly put your uniforms back on. It was awkward sometimes, immediately after sex, as you both come back, reluctantly, to reality - but when she gives you a sheepish smile after zipping up her flight suit, you couldn’t help but smile back. 

She steps out into the hallway, back towards the deck, and as you close the door to your office you couldn’t help but notice how it looked a little darker, a little more dim without Jung Eunji’s presence. She was light, she was sunshine, and when she left the room she took her light with her.

You accompany her back to the hangar deck - her bunk was on the other side of the ship, and you needed to get back to work on her bird, anyway.

When you both reach her Raptor, your fingers reach out and graze its fuselage once more, like an owner returning to its pet after a day’s work. You could almost imagine it being happy to see you again.

“I’ll be back early tomorrow to check up on your work,” Lieutenant Jung says, with just a hint of that thousand watt smile on her lips. “Good work today, Chief.”

“Thanks. Have a good night, Sunshine.”

Her smile widens briefly, and while you hadn’t ever in your life had the pleasure of setting foot on Earth, you imagine that that was what it must have felt like to have a ray of sun set upon you. You let her walk away, cradling her pilot helmet under one arm. 

Her hips, and the perfectly sculpted cheeks of that ass of hers, sway alluringly with each step she takes. You knew for a fact your eyes weren’t the only ones glued onto the young pilot’s swaying butt as she walks the width of the hangar and disappears into one of the adjoining corridors.

With a smile, you glance back up at her plane, and the gold lettering near the canopy where her name and callsign are emblazoned. She never told you how or when she got her callsign -  only that it was the name of some well endowed celebrity from old Earth.

LT. E. JUNG - “KARDASHIAN.”

---

Author’s Note: Trying something new here with the sci-fi backstory. I think any fans of Battlestar Galactica (the remake) would know where I got the inspiration. I had the biggest crush on Boomer... ;)

[nelc]

The multiple pressure hulls of the Russian Akula class (NATO reporting name 'Typhoon')

1 - outer hull; 2 - 533 mm forward torpedo tubes; 3 - pressure hull (forward); 4 - stowable forward hydroplanes; 5 - forward escape hatches; 6 - torpedo compartment pressure hull; 7 - sonar compartment; 8 - 20 x R-39 ballistic missile tubes; 9 - control room; 10 - escape capsules; 11 - retractable devices; 12 - Fin; 13 - radio room; 14 - reactor compartment; 15 - hangar / payload doors for towed communication buoy; 16 - protrusions to prevent ice damaging the propellers; 17 - turbine compartment; 18 - machine compartment, 19 - hydrodynamic vortex smoothing protrusions; 20 - vertical stabiliser; 21 - rudders; 22 - ducted propeller; 23 - aft hydroplanes; 24 - sonar; 25 - stowable thrusters; 26 - missile compartment; 27 - crew compartment; 28 - 2 x OK-650 nuclear reactors; 29 - propeller shaft; 30 - horizontal stabiliser; 31 - pressure hull (forward); 32 - main pressure hull (starboard); 33 - main pressure hull (port); 34 - pressure hull (fin); 35 - pressure hull (aft); 36 - rapid dive tank

i - attack periscope; ii - navigation periscope; iii - radio sextant; iv - radar/ESM system, v - snorkel; vi & viii - radio communications; vii - direction finding; ix - satellite communication/positioning antenna; x - hull mounted towed sonar array

[spoon-writes]

Ends of the Earth | Chapter 6

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Mando x OC

Read on FFN or AO3

Summary: When Sinead's husband is ripped from her, she escapes the Hutt Empire and goes on a quest to find him. Since being a runaway slave in the Outer Rim isn't exactly easy, she makes the Mandalorian an offer he can't refuse and soon they travel across the galaxy, looking for her missing husband.

Chapter index

Chapter 6 - The Mechanic

The hangar was quiet when they entered, no sign of the mechanic or her pit droids anywhere.

At the starboard side of the ship a panel had been moved aside and complicated machinery was exposed to the world. Parts of the turbine had been ripped out, making sure that the ship wouldn't be able to get off the ground.

As she examined the ship, Sinead's eyes strayed to the exit by their own volition, her heart beating just a little bit faster. Rationally, she knew that Fennec Shand had no idea that she was even there, and Sinead didn't think herself so important that she was a target, but the scared, vulnerable part of her brain screamed at her to find passage on the next ship out of there and never look back.

Sinead started when Mando shouted and came thundering out of the ship, looking around wildly.

"The kid's gone."

"What do you-"

Mando zeroed in on one of the pit droids. "Where is he?"

The poor droid collapsed in the sand with a shriek.

The mechanic came out from her workshop, cradling the kid. "Quiet!" She looked down at the cranky child. "Oh, it's okay. You woke it up! Do you have any idea how long it took me to get it to sleep?"

Mando stared at the mechanic, his body radiating barely repressed nervous energy. "Give him to me."

The mechanic shifted her grip on the child. "Not so fast! You can't just leave a child all alone like that. You know, you two have an awful lot to learn about raisin' a young one."

Sinead's eyes widened. "Oh, he's not mine."

The mechanic pursed her lips and looked from Mando to Sinead. "Right ..." she said. "Anyway, I stared the repair on the fuel leak." The diagnostic machine beeped angrily, and she gave it a good whack. "There you go. I have a couple of setbacks I want to talk to you about. You know, I didn't use any droids, as requested, so it took me a lot longer than I expected."

Mando fetched a bag from the ship. "She'll stay back if you have any questions." He nodded toward Sinead.

The mechanic looked her up and down. "Do you know your way around a starship?"

"Provided with a map I'm sure I can figure it out."

"Don't go thinking it's gonna be cheaper just cause you leave some help behind! You still owe me-"

"I know." Mando stopped in front of the mechanic, who looked at him suspiciously. "Thank you."

“Oh …” She shot Sinead a confused look, who could do nothing but shrug. Apparently, gratitude was a rare thing in Mos Eisley.

The Mandalorian moved toward the exit with the mechanic hot on his heels. Sinead stayed by the ship, wondering if she should find somewhere to hide, or if it would be too hard to explain to the mechanic.

A droid slinked up to the ship, a small wrench in its hand.

"Sorry," Sinead said, and the droid stopped in its tracks. "The Mandalorian don't want any droids on the ship. Don't ask me why."

The droid beeped dejectedly and let the wrench slip from its hands and fall to the ground with a thud.

Sinead was poking around the damaged side of the ship when the mechanic came back, holding the child on her hip.

"He's left with some Corellian looking fella." She pointed a thumb over her shoulder. "You know what that's about?"

Sinead didn't, as the mere mention of Fennec Shand had put all other considerations on the sideline.

"I don't like the look of him. He's too ..." the mechanic searched for the right word. "Young."

"I think the Mandalorian can take care of himself."

"Eh, you're probably right. He could break that little twerp in two if he wanted. You want down?"

"Wha-? Oh."

The kid was let down on the ground and toddled toward Sinead, his small feet making tracks in the sand. When he came to a power-converter, he tried climbing it instead of going around and teetered on the edge before Sinead grabbed him.

"That's not for climbing," she said, already pulling her braid out of his hands.

"Now you're here, I might actually get some work done." The mechanic grabbed a toolbox and moved to the open panel. "You know what species he is?"

Sinead sat down on a durasteel crate, the kid sitting calmly on her lap. She let him grab her braid, since it was apparently the only thing he was interested in.

"I've no idea. The Mandalorian hasn't exactly been in a sharing mood when it comes to the kid."

"Yeah, he doesn't seem the chatty type."

"You don't know half of it." The child cooed when Sinead lifted him to examine his little face. "Maybe he's a lannik."

"Now I haven't seen a lannik in a day and a half, but I'm pretty sure they didn't use to be green."

"Mm, stranger things have happened."

The kid seemed to understand, somehow, that they were talking about him. He babbled a short string of nonsensical sounds and gave her a toothy smile.

There was something about him that made Sinead sure he wasn't a lannik; he was strange in a way she couldn't put her finger on, when she looked into his dark eyes, it felt like something much older looked back.

The harsh smell of fuel hit her nose, and Sinead wondered if she should move further away, but as long as the mechanic didn’t run, she supposed there was nothing to worry about.

"Name's Peli, by the way." She used both hands to clamp down on a pipe that dripped fuel. "Did you say you know anything about ship repairs?"

"I'm Chela. And that really depends on what you want me to do. I grew up around freighters, but never really had an interest in learning how they work."

Peli shot Sinead a look over her shoulder.

"Sorry. But what do you want me to do?"

"Take the hydroclamp over there-" she nodded toward a greasy toolbox- "and put it right next to my hand, will ya'?"

Sinead placed the child on the ground, and he waddled after her as she went to grab the clamp.

"Hey!" Peli shouted to one of her droids. "Make sure the kid doesn't get in the way."

Sinead crouched down next to Peli. From here, the smell of fuel nearly knocked her over. "So just put it here?"

"Don't scratch the pipe, or else we have a whole new leak on our hands."

The hydroclamp whirred as it compressed around the pipe, stopping the leak.

Peli got off her knees and stretched, and there were new stains on her overalls. She didn't seem to mind. "That’s one fire out. Now on to the next three hundred. What did you do to this boat?”

"I told you, meteors."

"Uh-huh. Must have been one of them new starships that shoot meteors instead of lasers.”

"Might have been. Stranger things, and all that."

"Strange, right."

Next, Peli showed Sinead how to remove the camburator and replace it with one that wasn't half melted into the circuitry. Peli carefully removed the burnt chunk of metal but before she had a chance to put in the new one, a random charge went through the wires and a flame shot out from the hole.

"Kark!" Peli yelled and jumped back. "Where's the damn-"

One of the droids came bounding up, beeping cheerfully all the way. A small panel on its helmet slid aside and it doused the fire, a strong scent of chemicals overpowering the smell of fuel. When it was done, it turned to Peli who gave it a quick pat on the head.

“Figure his no droid policy doesn’t extend to emergencies.”

The kid watched all this sitting a safe distance away, his small hands buried in the sand.

"Whatever jackass modified this boat did a piss-poor job of it. Who links a baffler to a flux surger? Was this put together by a Kowakian monkey-lizard on spice?"

Sinead cautiously stepped forward to look at the damage. It didn't look like the fire had done anything but scorch the metal plating on the ship, that already looked like it'd flown through an active volcano. "Can you fix it?"

Peli made a sound at the back of her throat. "Can I fix it she asks." She exchanged a look with the droid. "Sure, but I can’t promise it’ll hold in the long run. Those meteors really did a number on you."

Sinead shot a look toward the exit. "Just as long as we get off this planet."

"Not a fan of the heat are ya?"

"The sand. It gets everywhere."

Peli snorted as she grabbed a complex tool and started work on the camburator. "Yeah, the desert isn't for everyone. You should stay back, by the way, easier to do on my own. Don't wanna have to worry about you electrocuting yourself on the y-brantor."

Sinead didn't complain, pulling back and leaning against the remains of a half-gutted hoverbike.

She watched Peli work for a bit. "Has Tatooine changed a lot since the Hutt died?"

"Oh, heard about that, have you?" Peli didn't look up from the ship.

"Everyone this side of the galaxy has heard that the Hutt croaked."

"I guess you're right. Well, instead of paying protection money to the fat slug, we give ‘em to whatever gang happens to be top dog this week." She pulled out another burned part. "Can’t complain though, at least these ones don’t break my droids when I’m a few credits short."

"Seems a bit counterintuitive, doesn’t it, breaking your droids? How are you supposed to make any money then?”

"Yeah, I’d say take it up with Jabba, but you’re kinda late for that."

"Let’s just hope the afterlife is filled with salt pits."

"Personally, I hope he’s stuck in the belly of a sarlacc."

Sinead smiled at the thought. "Oh, that’s good."

Peli had her entire head inside the ship when she spoke, making her voice sound muffled. "So how long’ve you been traveling with the Mandalorian?"

"Not that long. Around four days, perhaps?" It was always so hard to tell when most of the time they spent hurling through space.

"Is it really true they never take their helmets off?"

"Seems so. I've never seen him without it."

"Well-" Peli pulled her head out, a smear of oil across her forehead- "how do they eat?"

"You know, I haven’t actually seen him eat. Or sleep, for that matter."

"You think he’s a droid?"

Sinead huffed out a laugh. "You know, that would explain so much."

Their conversation halted when the kid wobbled over to Sinead, who sat him down next to her on the hoverbike. He had found a bolt somewhere and was examining it with childish curiosity.

"You’ve been on Tatooine all your life?" Sinead said after the silence had gotten too much. It was nice talking to someone who knew how to have a normal conversation.

"Born and bred. My da worked the space port before me. Taught me all I know."

A small, wistful smile spread across Sinead's face. Her father had tried teaching her about ship maintenance, but she hadn't been interested to learn, she would rather fly, explore the galaxy. His voice rang through her head, 'you're not gonna get farther than the next system over if you don't know how to take care of your ship, space-bug.' And then he leaned over and kissed her forehead. Her heart ached. She hadn't thought about that in a long time.

"Chela? You all right there?"

Sinead blinked and looked around. She was still in the hangar on Tatooine, and her father had been dead for 11 years.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, can you repeat that?"

Peli looked at her, her brows knitted. "Sure. Said I started working alongside him when I was old enough to hold a wrench and not kill myself by wandering in front of an ignited turbine."

"And your mother? She was a mechanic too?"

"Nah, was a scavenger out in the Dune Sea. Never had a mind for mending machines, only pulling them apart, she used to say. Sand People got her about fifteen years ago."

The kid pulled himself upright and tried crawling onto Sinead's lap. She caught him before he slipped.

"I’m sorry to hear that."

"It was a long time ago. Da went a couple of years later, left the work to me. Can’t complain, lots of people would kill for a job with steady credits. Providin’ the customers pay, of course."

"You get a lot of traffic here?"

"Mos Eisley’s the biggest spaceport on Tatooine, so we get our fair share. Not lacking for work, that’s for sure. You’d think that after the Hutt’s death, smugglers and grifters wouldn’t have a reason to dock, but they still show up like mold.”

"Maybe Tatooine has something special to offer."

"Ha! We ain’t got nothing to offer except sand and Jawas."

"And I’m sure that out there, someone is just dying to find a place filled with nothing but just that. That person is probably psychotic, but they’re out there."

Peli's laugh echoed from where her entire upper body was inside the ship. "Chela, you're all right."

Biting her lips, Sinead looked up at the blue sky, suddenly feeling very lonely. No matter how well they connected, Peli would always know her as Chela.

She changed the subject. "So, you have any good stories to tell me? Any shady smugglers or dashing rogues come your way? I'm sure working here all your life you must've seen a thing or two.

Peli stood up, her face contorting in pain as she grabbed her back. "You know, you ask a lot of questions, Startin' to feel like I'm being interrogated here."

"Sorry about that. I just like hearing stories. I had a broken holorecorder when I was little, that only recorded sound, and I went around interviewing everyone who would let me."

"What happened to it?"

"It was ... lost, a long time ago. We traveled a lot, so I guess I needed something to occupy my time with-"

"Didn't learn a damn thing about starships, that's for sure."

"-so I started collecting stories. Everyone has something to tell.”

"You know, most people collect interesting rocks, funny drawings ..."

"Hey, out in space there's a distinct lack of interesting rocks. I found the next best thing."

Peli shot her a look before returning to work on the ship. Her curly hair was plastered to her forehead. "So, to answer your question, yes, I have a couple of stories from over the years. I don't know if you noticed it on your little stroll around town, but this ain't exactly Coruscant. We get lucky if we go one day without a shootout in the street."

"Hey, I've been to Coruscant once and I barely got off the ship before someone tried to sell me some spice. I’m sure Mos Eisley isn't that different."

"Sounds like what happened to Brendo last week. Hope you didn't end up with a vibro-blade between the ribs."

Sinead snorted. "No, it didn't go that far."

Peli came up again, this time with a small component in her hands. She sat down on the nearest surface and started to pry it open. "Now let's see, a good story for your collection ..."

Sinead settled in and listened to a long-winded story involving a banged-up YT-1300, a bunch of imperial stormtroopers, and a hangar left in ruins.

"I don't suppose the Empire paid your friend for damages?"

"Bastards nearly arrested him on account of 'harboring a fugitive', go figure. And you know, I was pissed that slimy bastard stole my dock. Changed my tune when I saw what they did to the place."

"Did he manage to salvage anything, or is it still a smoking hole in the ground?"

"After clearing out the rubble, the place was mostly working again. Ugly, but usable, which is the official Mos Eisley motto if you ain’t noticed.”

Stars dotted the sky, which had gone from azure to a dark blue. Surrounded by tall walls, the shadows seemed deeper, but in contrast, even though the suns had set, the stonework had spent all day baking in the sun and was still radiating heat. It wouldn’t be long until that heat dissipated, and the desert would grow freezing cold. It reminded Sinead of many night on Sriluur huddled under a thin blanket, waiting for the sun to rise.

"He's still telling that story to every poor bastard he manages to corner. As he tells it, he's lucky to be alive."

Peli and Sinead sat at a low table under the stars, looking at the ship that had been fixed as well as any competent mechanic could. At least it no longer looked like it had been to hell and back.

The tall walls surrounding them blocked out all sounds of Mos Eisley.

Sinead leaned back in her uncomfortable chair and looked up at the darkened sky.

"So, you've always known you wanted to be a ship mechanic?"

Peli looked up from the datapad she was thumbing through. "Yes ma'am, ever since I was a little 'un. Growing up in a spaceport certainly helped, but I've always found that ships spoke to me, sort of. Does that make sense?"

Sinead leaned back even further, almost slipping out of the chair. "Sure it does."

"What about you? You always knew you wanted to be a ..." Peli gave Sinead a scrutinizing look. "Smuggler?"

"I'm not a smuggler," Sinead said with a laugh. "I'm ... I don't really know what I am. Searching, I guess."

"Hey, ain't any of my business. Learned a long time ago there're more creds for those who keep their traps shut."

Sinead gave her a soft smile. "'Preciate it."

The child slept on a chair beside Sinead, swaddled in a blanket to ward off the oncoming chill. She reached out and ran a finger over his little head.

"You know, back when I was your age, one of them big freighters stopped by to regroup after their ship was in a tiff with some pirates or other. I was brought on to help them sort themselves out, and I guess the foreman took a likin' to me because he offered me a job on the ship."

"Well then, what're you doing here?"

"Easy now. I ain't gonna lie, I was mighty tempted to take it. They needed someone who had a way with boats and droids. Apparently the last one ended up skipping out after first pay." Peli eyes were hazy with old memories.

"Why didn't you?"

Peli huffed out a breath. "Tattoine is my home. I ain't got much in the way of family, but I got my droids, and that's gotta be enough." She affectionately patted the closest droid on its domed head. "This one got chucked after a podrace, found him out by the dump, nothing but a pile of bolts and rust. Think he got hit by a podracer down in the pit."

Sinead looked at the little droid.

"Imagine if I hadn't been here, what would've happened to him. I pretty much had to remake him from the bottoms-"

"Wait ..." Sinead held up a hand to stop Peli. "You fix droids ..."

Peli's eyebrows knitted together. "Yeah. Chela, are you-"

"Hold on."

Sinead got up from the chair so fast it nearly tipped back and raced to the ship. No time to turn on the lights, she ripped open a compartment and rifled through it until her fingers closed around the memory bank.

When she came back, the child was awake and looking around blearily. He reached out to her, but she skirted around and placed the little box in front of Peli, who now looked thoroughly confused.

"Can you find out what's on this?"

Peli picked up the memory bank. "Kriff, Chela, what did you do to this thing? Remove it with a sledgehammer?”

Sinead's smile was strained. "Something like that. Can you do it?"

Peli turned the box over and over, looking at the fraying wires. "Shouldn't be a problem, I can reroute it through one of my droids."

"You can't connect it with a datapad or something?"

"This came out of a droid, meaning it's going into a droid if we want to know what's on it. You know what we're looking for?" Peli said, getting up and striding into her workshop.

Sinead followed her closely, picking at her fingernails as Peli went around turning on the lights and grabbing various tools.

The workshop was cluttered in a very particular, organized way found in garages and repair stations all over the galaxy; gear and instruments were strewn across every surface not occupied by ship-parts in various states of repair. An old astromech had been chucked in the corner, ripped for parts until it was nothing but a hollow shell. The low ceiling seemed to trap the overpowering smell of fuel and oil.

Peli sat down on an overturned oil-drum and called over the nearest droid, who came slinking up to her, clearly not enthused about the prospect of having a foreign element plugged into its brain.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," Peli said when the droid beeped sadly. "It’ll be over in a sec." With a knife she replaced the wires with new ones and started plugging them into the droid.

Sinead heard a sound behind her, and she turned to see the one of the other droids walk up with the child in its arms.

"Done," Peli said, leaning back from the droid. "Give it some time to calibrate and ask away."

Her mouth was dry. Sinead forced herself to swallow and took a deep breath.

"Are there any records of a Kyen Beck ever having been on the facility?"

The droid trilled a long line of binary.

"My binary's a bit rusty, can you ...?"

Peli sat up in the chair. "Oh, sure. Um ... it says that ... there are records of a K. Beck being shipped to the facility. Is that it? Who's-?"

Sinead found the nearest clear surface and sat down. Heart hammering in her chest, she felt the ground shifting under her feet. It was like seeing the convor again, the sheer proof that Kyen was a tangible person who had left a sign for her.

"Where did he go next? I-I mean, does it say what happened to him?"

Peli listened to the droid. "No it doesn’t, I’m afraid."

Her heart hurt.

Sinead leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. "Fuck."

"I gotta know, who's Kyen?"

Peering through her fingers, Sinead saw Peli's worried eyes looking back. "Please don't ask any questions. I'm not in the mood to come up with a lie."

"Most folks aren't as forthcoming about the fact that they're lying."

"Not in the mood to pretend I'm not a liar either."

Sinead leaned back and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the smell of oil. She knew for a fact that Kyen had been there, just not where he went.

The droid beeped another long string of binary that Sinead didn't even bother trying to figure out.

"Wait a minute-" Peli listened to the droid, her brow furrowed in concentration- "according to this, all of the slaves-" she gave Sinead a shocked look- "were sent to a mining facility on Celva-Celvalara. Where's that?"

For the second time in as many minutes, Sinead's heart jumped into overdrive. "Celvalara? I've heard that before ..." she got up and started pacing around.

Peli watched her go in circles, rolling an old metal spring between her palms. "It's a planet?"

Sinead was about to answer, when her deeply ingrained self-preservation kicked in and she stopped herself before saying too much. She did recognize it, but that didn't mean she had to tell everyone.

"I don't know. I'll look into it." She reached Peli and took her hands into her own. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I really mean it."

Something akin to a blush spread over Peli's face, mostly obscured by the perpetual layer of dirt and oil covering it. "Um, yeah, well, I didn't exactly fight a sarlacc, did I."

"You might as well." Sinead squeezed her hands. "Thank you."

She rummaged in her pockets and withdrew the necklace, which had been tangled into a small ball. "I have this ... thing ... it's not much, but please take it as payment."

Peli peered at it. "You got that from Zinza?"

"If you mean the old lady with the disagreeable attitude, then yes."

"Ha! How much did you pay for that thing?"

"Forty creds."

"Forty! You got ripped off."

Sinead let out a small chuckle. "I think paying anything would constitute as being ripped off."

Peli cackled and waved her away. "Keep it. Who knows, you might end up meeting a blind droid in need of an optic unit."

"I'll make sure to give you a good tip, then."

"I like the sound of that."

<- Previous chapter - Next chapter ->

[sarissophori]

Forebode, Chapter 1

UCS Wayfarer, registration 0732-419-058B

Crew: 15

Homeport: Sorenson Orbital Shipyards, Nova Astria, Reyal system

Destination: Uncharted system XH-31590M

Mission: To locate UCS Wanderer and crew, classified missing;

              To rescue, if any, survivors from Wanderer;

              To resume, if able, Wanderer’s assignment of surveying moon XH-Ld for possible   habitation.

 Manifest: Hindel, Captain Laura B.

               Ellson, Ensign Brian A.

               Tajmaran, Ensign Ashok K.

               Komev, Ensign Nanya H.

               Walsh, Dr. Kane S.

               Talgold, Dr. Elliot T.

               Hornens, Chief James G.

               Mason, Chief Ben R.

               Ausmith, Lieutenant Jim A.

               Han, Dr. Henry F.

               Varrez, Dr. Anna I.

               Barrens, Sgt. Frederick R.

               Farzen, Pvt. Jon D.

               Davis, Pvt. Calvin S.

               Duvin, Pvt. Amal L.

      The interior of the Wayfarer was empty and still, the corridors dark, lit only by reserve power. The dull drone of the engines, the ship’s loudest noise, hummed through her three main decks, with no one to listen. For six standard months this was how she traveled, ghosting her way from her home system out to the unknown for the purpose of making it known, boosted by her main drives to a fraction of the speed of light. The onboard computer monitored, along with everything else, the closing lightyears and astronomical units towards the ship’s ultimate destination: a distant system once beyond the reach of humanity’s interstellar grasp, and far, far beyond the homeworld where that reach started near three centuries before.

       Now entering the boundaries of this alien system, the computer decelerated the main drive to impulse power, and warmed the primary generators; harsh florescent lighting kicked on, and it began waking the crew under its care.

       Its lonely sojourn and last-minute tasks completed, it now awaited the command to return automated control of the ship to manual, reverting to standby once more, until the long journey back home.

 Inside the Wayfarer’s stasis chamber, fifteen cryo-pods began the process of slowly revitalizing their occupants, gently rising them from frozen sleep to the eve of consciousness. The lids hissed and opened, taking the crew from dark pleasant numbness to a stark, florescent reality.

       Stiffly, one by one, they sat up, rubbing their cold dry skin and stretching in the artificial gravity. The crew’s assigned search and rescue (SAR) contingent, sergeant Barrens and privates Farzen, Davis and Duvin, were first on their feet.

       “We’re warming up before we hit the showers” Barrens said, rolling his shoulders. “Come on, forty reps each, get to it.”

       “And lose first dibs on water, sir?” Davis said.

       “I guess so” Barrens said. “A small price to pay for keeping your mind and body sharp floating in the middle of nowhere. Don’t make me go to fifty.”

       With that Barrens dropped and started his push-ups, his men following.

       Next out was Captain Hindel of civilian rank, who wasn’t quite as enthused with exercising first thing after cryo-sleep. Stifling her yawns, she went from pod to pod, checking on her crew and helping them amble out onto the deck: engineers Hornens and Mason, and shuttle pilot Ausmith, veteran ship-hoppers with years spent beyond the core systems, always used to doing more with less; doctors Walsh and Talgold, on their first deep space assignment; ensigns Ellson, Tajmaran and Komev, fresh from the academy and also on their first assignment; civilian science officer Han with a twenty-year background in xeno-biology; and geological specialist Varrez, who had never left Nova Astria before; a fresh crew under a first-time captain hoping to make a good impression for Sorenson.

       They all showered, dressed, ate and manned their stations, be it the hangar bay, engineering, or the bridge. Captain Hindel was already at work, giving the computer the codes necessary for manual control, restoring initiative to all primary consoles and terminals. Successful readouts showed green across her display, and the soft hum of electricity filled the bridge.

       The doors behind her opened and her flight officers walked in, each assuming their post under the gaze of her captain’s chair.

       “Morning ma’am” they said.

       “Ensigns” Hindel said. “Enjoy your first cryo-sleeps?”

       “Ugh, if you can call it sleep” Komev said, sitting down at navigation. “More like passing out inside a freezer. Christ, they’re cold.”

       “You get used to it” Hindel said.

       “If you say so, captain” Ellson said, joining Tajmaran at the helm.

       “At least none of you got nauseous” Hindel said. “That’s very common with first timers.”

       “I wanted to” Komev said. “I still want to.”

       “You can, just not on your console, please.”

       Komev swished a quick salute. “Aye-aye, ma’am.”

       “Good” Hindel said. “Has manual been fully restored to helm?”

       “Yes ma’am” Ellson said, testing his controls for responsiveness. “Helm’s green.”

       “Scanners showing green as well” Tajmaran said.

       “Navigation?”

       “Navigation’s green” Komev said.

       “Secondaries?”

       “Checking with Engineering” Tajmaran said. “Engines on medium burn, fifty percent impulse. Reactors within normal parameters; coolant systems functioning properly.”

       “Any signals from the Wanderer?”

       “No ma’am” Komev said. “No beacons, no distress calls, not even broadband transmissions. Just space and static.”

       “Keep trying” Hindel said, even though she, and they, knew how remote the chances were of picking up anything. The last transmission from the Wanderer was nearly two standard years ago, before she was declared missing; a check-in from their captain letting home base know they had reached the system safely. That in mind, Hindel sent out her own check-in back to control at Nova Astria, getting a funny, foreboding feeling as she did.

 The Wayfarer sailed on into system XH-31590M, the twin suns Xandra and Halbert shining faintly off starboard side, bathing radiance on the twelve planets and dozens of moons in orbit; mostly small, rocky worlds bare to radiation, unfit for colonies. More promising was the system’s four gas giants and their impressive array of planet-sized moons, some measuring twenty thousand kilometers in circumference, with atmospheres.

       Gliding past the outermost three, after one-hundred and twenty standard hours, the Wayfarer came into visual range of the innermost and largest of the giants, XH-Lambda, a rusty orange twinkle on the forward windows, three point twenty-five AUs from their current position; Xandra and Halbert were now the brightest stars in their relative space.

       “Try again” Hindel said.

       For the hundredth time Komev sifted through all available channels for any kind of transmission indicating the Wanderer was still broadcasting, repetition somewhat dulling her resolve, but always ready to catch the faintest ping on her headset. After a few minutes, she shook her head.

       “Nothing, ma’am.”

       “Are you scanning for short-range comms as well?”

       A slight pause, then “With respect ma’am, those aren’t strong enough to make it out this far— assuming its originating from the planet.”

       “Even so” Hindel said. “Now that XH-L is in visual, I’d like you to start. Your point is noted, but we can’t assume their position until we have confirmation. I want confirmation.”

       “Aye Captain.”

       Hindel turned to the helm. “Anything on scans?”

       “Just dust and radiation feedback” Tajmaran said. “A few metallic signatures too, but none matching the Wanderer; most likely asteroids.”

       “There’s a debris cloud point seven-five AUs off portside” Ellson said. “But that puts it too far out from the Wanderer’s course to be her. Scans show the composition doesn’t match anyway.”

       “I still want a report sent to my quarters before rotation’s end” Hindel said.

       “Will do, ma’am.”

       Hindel sat back in her chair, elbows on armrests, and stared off past the forward windows to the twinkling gas giant growing before them with every hour, touching the dark corners of the bridge with a soft orange. Her training always insisted on proactivity and improvisation to help achieve a mission, especially in uncharted space, but what more could be done? Sitting in a chair, listening for a noise, looking for a signature, repeating to nauseum; it gnawed at her instinct to do more, especially after so long with nothing to show for it.

       Yet she admitted to herself, quietly, that her expectations really weren’t too different than her officers at this point. She knew they weren’t going to find anyone out here in the literal middle of nowhere, not after all this time. This was a glorified salvage mission, absolutely. Still, she felt the need as captain to put on a brave face, insist on finding survivors, and keep her crew focused. Besides, if they were ever lost, she’d sure like to know that any ship sent to look for them didn’t simply write off hope at the start. Anyone lost out here deserved that much.

 After one hundred and sixty-eight standard hours since waking, the mass of XH-Lambda filled the forward windows of the Wayfarer’s bridge, making them polarize for compensation. Bands of red and dusty brown swirled and mixed like estuaries, blending into thunderheads flickered by pinpricks of static lightning, or swelling into deep crimson spots fed by their own tidal rotations. Ellson and Tajmaran took their readings and uploaded them to the ship’s computer.

       The Wayfarer tilted slightly starboard and nosed down, shifting their view of XH-Lambda and making a play of the shadows. As they entered its outer orbit, they came within visual of a moon glowing in the distance, an unassuming speck in the void. This speck, XH-Ld, was the Wanderer’s destination, and likely location.

       “Scans, people” Hindel said. “Give me some good news today.”

       Static crackled in her headset as Komev tried again to hone in on a manmade signal, beacon or communication on any frequency…finding none. Tajmaran analyzed sensor pings around the moon’s orbit for artificial traces, including wisps of ionized radiation, also coming up empty.

       “Sorry captain, the usual story.”

       “Well that just leaves the moon itself then, doesn’t it?” Hindel said. “Ellson, take us within low orbit over XH-Ld, holding at three hundred kilometers.”

       “Setting course” Ellson said, tapping in the coordinates. “ETA in four hours.”

       Hindel nodded and stood up from her chair.

       “Ellson, you have the bridge. I’ll be in my quarters if anyone needs me.”

 The captain isolated herself in the ‘study’ of her bedroom, taking the time to send off her first report since entering the XH system:

<Log 1

  Hindel, Laura A. manual report

  Mission time: 4,488.23.00 hours

  System scanned for all comms; negative finds, no responses. Within short range

  broadcast of XH-L and moon. Area around moon scanned; no results. Will attempt

  again once in low orbit. Search team on standby. Secondary mission parameters

  still assumed. >

         “Computer, sinfonia number two, the romantic.”

       Classically-styled music played from her desk, filling the room with its waltzing melody and sending her worlds away from the tedium of the bridge, back to the green, rolling fields of Coasta Paradizia on Mars where she grew up. She closed her eyes and saw the sun again, and wind-swept plains with deep canals emptying into the wetlands of Mare Cydonia. The summer cloud fronts over the Arabia Gulf made for particularly beautiful sunsets, and she saw them again, here at her desk, at least for a while.

[usaac-official]

Airworthy P-47 Thunderbolts, 2017

A short guide to the survivors, and how to quickly identify them.

Balls Out, 44-32817, Lewis Air Legends

Red cowling, red cockpit frame, red bars on wingtips, horizontal stabilizers and fin; aircraft code G9-L.  This aircraft served in the Venezuelan Air Force from 1949, and eventually returned to the US in 1995.  She is based out of San Antonio, Texas.

Tarheel Hal, 44-90368, Lone Star Flight Museum

Orange fin and rear fuselage, invasion stripes on underside of rear fuselage and inner wings, distinctive orange/yellow/blue nose art, aircraft code IA-N; this paint scheme was worn by an identical aircraft of the 358th Fighter Group.  This aircraft was sold to the Venezuelan Air Force after WWII and returned in the 1990s for restoration.  She is based out of Galveston, Texas.

Wicked Wabbit, 44-90438, Tennessee Museum of Aviation

Red cowling ring, olive drab top fuselage, yellow bands on outer wing panels and fin, aircraft code 44; she wears the paint scheme of an identical aircraft of the 57th Fighter Group.  This aircraft was sold to the Yugoslav Air Force after the end of the war and returned to the US in 1986 for restoration.  She is based out of Sevierville, Tennessee, with her squadron mate

Hun Hunter XVI, 44-90460, Tennessee Museum of Aviation

Red cowling ring, olive drab top fuselage, yellow bands on the outer wings and fin, aircraft code 40; she wears the paint scheme of an identical aircraft of the 57th Fighter Group.  This aircraft was sold to Brazil in the 1950s and returned to the US in 1988 for restoration.  She is based out of Sevierville, Tennessee.

Hairless Joe, 44-90471, Erickson Aircraft Collection

Mottled grey-green fuselage and wings, invasion stripes on the lower rear fuselage and wings, red cowling ring, aircraft code LM-S; she wears the paint scheme of an identical aircraft of the 56th Fighter Group.  This aircraft was sold to the Peruvian Air Force and returned in to the US 1969.  She is based out of Madras, Oregon.

No Guts, No Glory, 45-49192, Claire Aviation Inc

Black-and-white checkerboard cowling, invasion stripes on the upper and lower wings and rear fuselage, black band on fin, aircraft code XM-X; she wears the colors of an identical aircraft of the 82nd Fighter Squadron.  This aircraft was sold to Peru and returned to the US in 1969 for restoration.  She is based out of Wilmington, Delaware.

Squirt VIII, 45-49205, Palm Springs Air Museum

Dark green fuselage, white cowling ring, white band on fin, invasion stripes on the lower wings and rear fuselage, aircraft code 2Z-P.  This aircraft was sold to the Peruvian Air Force and returned to the US in 1969 for restoration.  She is based out of Palm Springs, California.

45-49346, Yanks Air Museum

Unpainted except for national insignia and tail number, the Yanks Air Museum P-47D is one of few unpainted airworthy survivors.  She is based out of Chino, California, along with

42-27385, Yanks Air Museum

Unpainted except for national insignia and tail number, she is a rare prototype YP-47M.  The aircraft is based out of Chino, California.

45-49385, Westpac Restorations

Black-and-white checkerboard cowling, black band on fin, invasion stripes on lower wings and fuselage, aircraft codes WZ-A (port) and B-WZ (starboard).  The aircraft was sold to the Peruvian Air Force and returned to the US in 1969 for restoration.  She is based out of Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Tallahassee Lassie, 45-49406, Flying Heritage Collection

Blue cowling ring, blue cockpit frame, blue bands on horizontal stabilizers and fin, aircraft code 2Z-T; she wears the paint scheme of an identical aircraft of the 510th Fighter Squadron.  This aircraft was assigned to the ANG in 1948, removed from service soon after, and later restored.  She is based out of Everett, Washington.

Snafu, 42-25068, Comanche Warbirds Inc.

Razorback variant.  Dark green fuselage, black-and-white checkerboard cowling, invasion stripes on upper and lower wings and rear fuselage, white bands on horizontal stabilizers and fin, aircraft code WZ-D.  This aircraft entered civilian hands immediately following the end of WWII and has remained airworthy since.  She is operated out of Houston, Texas.

Spirit of Atlantic City, NJ, 42-25254, Planes of Fame Air Museum

Razorback variant.  Dark green fuselage, white cowling ring, white bands on horizontal stabilizers and fin, invasion stripes on rear fuselage and wings (may or may not be present), aircraft code UN-M.  This aircraft has been in civilian hands since 1944.  She is based out of Chino, California.

Lil Meatie’s Meat Chopper, 44-89136, Commemorative Air Force

Unfortunately the only picture of this plane I can find is disassembled in a hangar after a 2002 crash, so I don’t know if it still is airworthy or not.  Any information regarding this aircraft would be most welcome.

Several other Thunderbolts are under restoration to airworthiness, including the wreckage of Jackie’s Revenge which was lost in May 2016 with her pilot.  

[capecodcurmudgeon-blog]

In September 1935, the Imperial Japanese Navy was conducting wargame maneuvers, when the fourth fleet was caught in extremely foul weather. By the 26th, the storm had reached Typhoon status,  The damage to the Japanese fleet was near catastrophic. Two large destroyers had their bows torn away by heavy seas. Several heavy cruisers suffered major structural damage submarine tenders and light aircraft carriers developed serious cracks in their holes. One minelayer required near total rebuild, and virtually all the fleet destroyers suffered damage to their superstructures. 54 crewmen were lost.

Nine years later, it would be the turn of the American fleet.

The war in the Pacific was in its third year in December 1944. A comprehensive defeat only weeks earlier had dealt the Imperial Japanese war effort a mortal blow at Leyte Gulf, yet the war would go on for the better part of another year.

Carrier Task Force 38 was a massive assembly of warships, a major element of the 3rd Fleet under the Command of Admiral William “Bull” Halsey.  In formation, TF-38 moved in three eight-mile diameter circles, each with an outer ring of destroyers, an inner ring of battleships and cruisers, and a mixed core of 35,000-ton Essex class and smaller escort carriers. TF-38 was a massive force, fielding eighty-six warships, altogether.

By mid-December 1944, Task Force 38 had been underway for three weeks, and just completed three days of heavy raids against Japanese airfields in the Philippines, suppressing enemy aircraft in support of American amphibious operations against Mindoro, and badly in need of re-supply.  A replenishment fleet, 35 ships in all, was sent to the nearest spot near Luzon, yet still outside of Japanese fighter range.  Replenishment operations began the morning of the 17th.

Rapid movement into previously enemy-held territory made it impossible to establish advance weather reporting.  By the time that Task Force aerological (meteorological) service reports made it to ships in the operating area, weather reports were at least twelve hours old.

Three days earlier, a barometric low pressure system had begun to form off Luzon, fed by the warm waters of the Philippine sea.  High tropospheric humidity fed and strengthened the disturbance, as counter-clockwise winds began to develop around the low pressure center.  By the 18th, this small “tropical disturbance” had developed into a compact but powerful cyclone.

Replenishment operations began the morning of the 17th, as increasing winds and building seas made refueling increasingly difficult.  Refueling hoses were parted on several occasions and thick hawsers had to be cut to avoid collision, as sustained winds built to 40 knots.  Believing the storm center to be 450 miles to his southeast, Admiral Halsey didn’t want to return to base.  That would take too long, and combat operations were scheduled to resume two days later.  Halsey needed the carrier group refueled and on station, and so it was decided.  Task Force 38 and the replenishment fleet, would proceed to a second replenishment point, hoping to resume refueling operations the morning of the 18th.

Four times over the night of December 17-18, course was corrected in the search for calmer water.  Four times, the ships of Task Force 38 and it’s attendant resupply ships, turned closer to the eye of the storm.  2,200-ton destroyers pitched and rolled like corks, bows towering over the crest of 70-waves, only to crash into the trough of the next, shuddering like cold dogs as hulls struggled to shed a thousand tons of water from their decks.

Hulls would creak and groan with the pounding and rivets popped.  Captains in wheelhouses would order course headings, but helmsmen could do no better than 50° to either side of the intended course.  Some ships rolled more than 70°.  The 888-ft carrier USS Hancock, scooped tons of water onto its flight decks, 57′ up.

Typhoon Cobra reached peak ferocity between 1100 and 1400, with sustained winds of 100mph and gusts of up to 140.

The lighter destroyers got the worst of it, finding themselves “in irons” – broad side to the wind and rolling as much as 75°, with no way to regain steering control.  Some managed to pump seawater into fuel tanks to increase stability, while others rolled and couldn’t recover, as water cascaded down smokestacks and disabled engines.

146 aircraft were either wrecked or blown overboard.  The carrier USS Monterrey nearly went down in flames, as loose airplanes crashed about on hanger decks and burst into flames.  One of those fighting fires aboard Monterrey was then-Lieutenant Gerald Ford, the former Michigan Wolverine center and future President of the United States.

Many of the ships of TF-38 sustained damage to above-decks superstructure, knocking out radar equipment and crippling communications.

790 Americans lost their lives in Typhoon Cobra, killed outright or washed overboard and drowned.

It could have been worse.  The destroyer escort USS Tabberer defied orders to return to port, Lieutenant Commander Henry Lee Plage conducting a 51-hour boxed search for survivors, despite the egregious pounding being taken by his own ship.  USS Tabberer plucked 55 swimmers from the water, survivors of the capsized destroyers Hull and Spence.

Typhoon Cobra moved on that night, December 19 dawning clear with brisk winds. Admiral Halsey ordered “All ships of the Task Force line up side-by-side at about ½ mile spacing and comb the 2800-square mile area” in which they’d been operating.  Carl M. Berntsen, SoM1/C aboard the destroyer USS DeHaven, recalled that “I saw the line of ships disappear over the horizon to starboard and to port”. The Destroyer USS Brown rescued six survivors from the Monaghan, and another 13 from USS Hull.  18 more would be plucked from the water, 93 in all, by ships spread across 50-60 miles of open ocean.

When it was over, Admiral Chester Nimitz said typhoon Cobra “represented a more crippling blow to the Third Fleet than it might be expected to suffer in anything less than a major action.”

  Afterward

Carl Martin Berntsen passed away on October 13th, 2014 in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. He would have been 94, the following month. I am indebted to him and excellent essay for this story.  Virtually all ships of Task Force 38 were damaged to some degree.  I offer a tip of the hat to Wikipedia, for the following summary of the more serious instances.

USS Hull – with 70% fuel aboard, capsized and sunk with 202 men drowned (62 survivors)

USS Monaghan – capsized and sunk with 256 men drowned (six survivors)

USS Spence – rudder jammed hard to starboard, capsized and sunk with 317 men drowned (23 survivors) after hoses parted attempting to refuel from New Jersey because they had also disobeyed orders to ballast down directly from Admiral Halsey

USS Cowpens – hangar door torn open and RADAR, 20mm gun sponson, whaleboat, jeeps, tractors, kerry crane, and 8 aircraft lost overboard. One sailor lost.

USS Monterey – hangar deck fire killed three men and caused evacuation of boiler rooms requiring repairs at Bremerton Navy yard

USS Langley – damaged

USS Cabot – damaged

USS San Jacinto – hangar deck planes broke loose and destroyed air intakes, vent ducts and sprinkling system causing widespread flooding. Damage repaired by USS Hector

USS Altamaha – hangar deck crane and aircraft broke loose and broke fire mains

USS Anzio – required major repair

USS Nehenta – damaged

USS Cape Esperance – flight deck fire required major repair

USS Kwajalein – lost steering control

USS Iowa – propeller shaft bent and lost a seaplane

USS Baltimore – required major repair

USS Miami – required major repair

USS Dewey – lost steering control, RADAR, the forward stack, and all power when salt water shorted main electrical switchboard

USS Aylwin – required major repair

USS Buchanan – required major repair

USS Dyson – required major repair

USS Hickox – required major repair

USS Maddox – damaged

USS Benham – required major repair

USS Donaldson – required major repair

USS Melvin R. Nawman – required major repair

USS Tabberer – lost foremast

USS Waterman – damaged

USS Nantahala – damaged

USS Jicarilla – damaged

USS Shasta – damaged “one deck collapsed, aircraft engines damaged, depth charges broke loose, damaged “

December 18, 1944 Typhoon Cobra In September 1935, the Imperial Japanese Navy was conducting wargame maneuvers, when the fourth fleet was caught in extremely foul weather.

[coronadelsol]

lehon | v. @adtenebras | incomplete

Kylo burned through pilots almost faster than they could be supplied to him. While most were competent enough in the cockpit for his purposes, they tended to be more curious than their infantry counterparts, quicker to question orders, and invariably useless once removed from their flight controls for ground combat. For their insufficiency, they’d been either blithely dismembered or ejected into space, depending on his mood.

Sure, he could fly his own shuttle, but as the newly minted Master of the Knights of Ren he ought not have to do menial things himself when he had other tasks to accomplish. It didn’t befit his title. It didn’t befit his power.

When he arrived in the small hangar bay where his shuttle (and TIE fighter, though that wouldn’t be of much use to him for the immediate future) resided, troopers were in the process of trotting up the boarding ramp with the supplies he’d need for the weeks-long assignment Snoke had designed for him. Sealed, unmarked crates of machinery and food, mostly, though one particular piece of equipment was of much more substantial importance to the Knight. He scanned the hangar for what was to be his latest pilot. Give me no less than your best, he’d growled at Colonel Hux, or I’ll continue to burn through your air troops until I find what I’m looking for. Soon, he’d find out if the greasy weasel had delivered.

A glinting flash of red on black caught his attention immediately, the hallmark helmet of a special forces pilot. Already, Ren was pleased. Hux didn’t like to spare the more highly trained fodder for Ren’s purposes if they were merely going to be eviscerated anyway, which meant this one wasn’t expected to fail. He strode forward until he was half a meter from the pilot, mask tilted in curiosity as he felt how the Force wove around the man, testing his mettle before anything else. “Your designation?”

Colonel Hux had probably meant for it to be a short conversation. A quick yes sir, despite whatever apprehension a pilot might have felt. A snapped salute. Hux would then dismiss the pilot, before getting back to whatever it was he really did around here. It was one of the greatest cases of nepotism Poe would ever witness in his lifetime. So really, it’d been just a little satisfying to watch those distinct brows leap in surprised when the order was questioned.

And not just the order, but the command’s judgement.

The problem was they had all heard the stories. Despite regulations created to specifically discourage and dispel, there were just some things you couldn’t keep the pilots from doing. Gossip was probably the least of the Order’s worries, anyways. After all this time, Poe wasn’t interested in becoming another statistic.

He’d spent years carving his place in the navy. He’d become irreplaceable. So why take the risk? He didn’t exactly share the colonel’s confidence that this would be a successful match.

But had he actually been able to get out of this assignment? No. So he’d spent the morning preparing for the trip, from packing his ready bag to making sure his affairs for the week were in order. Someone else would have to take over training the promising young pilots accepted into the program, and you could bet he’d be checking in on those same pilots the moment he was back.

The First Order had made an art form out of conditioning soldiers, sure, but Poe still knew he could do better. Not only that, he’d proven it. His pilots were the best, and he wasn’t excited to place them in someone else’s hands for whatever amount of time he’d be chauffeuring Snoke’s favorite around the galaxy.

Lord Ren’s initial approach wasn’t totally unlike a fighter to its target, a demand immediately on his lips. Provided the guy had lips.

“SP-3477.” Colloquially, Poe. Hux provided hadn’t provided that information, it wasn’t really officially on file. 

In the meantime, he didn’t give away much. His answer had been polite, although he couldn’t help tipping his head towards the shuttle while he spoke. There was a curiosity nagging at him already. He’d piloted several craft like this one, the old imperial style that the Order liked to drag around for officers; but Poe could see that this one was different.

A simple answer for a simple question. It suited Ren just fine. The mask remained trained on SP-3477 for a moment longer and the air grew noticeably heavier around the pair, but it was gone the instant he brushed past and continued forwards. “We leave now.” The troopers, having completed their task, scuttled away like beetles before him as he ascended the ramp, though not so hurriedly as to appear unprofessional. SP-3477, for the moment, went ignored.

He’d upgraded the weapons and hull armor of his Upsilon-class shuttle specifically for this mission based on rumors about his destination; even someone who thrived on chaos as he could learn to prepare for the worst. Upon reaching the cockpit, he entered several nondescript coordinates into the nav computer, a path that would avoid the popular hyperspace lanes through the core worlds in favor of a meandering route hugging the outer rim that would take much longer, but offer superior anonymity if needed. Minimal manpower meant even Kylo Ren would have to be careful. The path terminated at a planet named Lehon.

Satisfied, he crossed his arms and waited for the pilot to catch up.

He had to admire how those troopers could hustle once they’d been dismissed, their boots clicking against the floor as they departed the hangar bay.

SP-3477 had been itching for a little adventure for a few months now, but he probably should have been careful what he wished for. Things had been quiet, and the First Order had a way of laying low when it wanted to. It often wanted to.

There was so many details to drink in now that he’d ducked aboard the ship. Little tweaks, screens in places he hadn’t seen them before, and those supplies crammed in every nook. It wasn’t really a vessel meant for a journey this long, but it’d have to do. Poe had already staked out a chair that might be comfortable enough for the long series of naps that’d replace his normal sleep cycle.

“Did upper management provide you with any of my background?” He stood somewhat respectfully in the back of the cockpit, waiting to be invited further within. From here, he could see that their route had already been dropped into the nav-computer- something he’d usually like to be consulted on, but he figured it was a little early to nitpick Lord Ren’s plans.

Though his arms were tightly crossed, Ren leaned against one of the chairs in the cockpit and let his head tilt to the side, still measuring the worth of this pilot. “Nothing,” he said with a dismissive shrug, pushing off of the chair and retrieving a datapad inset in the wall of the cockpit to comb through whatever information happened to be relevant at the time. He noted SP-3477’s distance, and let it continue. “I only care if you can complete the tasks I give you, nothing more. You’re not to change any of the coordinates I’ve programmed unless otherwise ordered, and you’re not to touch the cargo. Your cabin is port, mine is starboard.”

Having been given this shuttle to do with as he pleased, Ren had taken it upon himself to refit the craft as a vessel for personal use. Taking advantage of the deceptive roominess this class of shuttle possessed, he’d had two tiny, but functional, cabins installed, and the resulting corridor between them could even have been called a common room, with a half-moon booth and a large table with bits of errant machinery still scattered on it from whatever Ren had been tinkering with last.

He wasn’t really sure what he’d expected.

Alright, maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate. He’d expected to be dead by now, organs lodged under a crate in the hangar bay before Ren had even taken off. It wasn’t a stretch to wonder why he was even here when the man was such an adept pilot. Poe had witnessed first hand what he was capable of.

Colonel Hux hadn’t really bothered to explain when asked, either. He’d seemed content to remind SP-3477 that it was his duty to do as he was told, without question.

Cabins, though. That was cozier than expected, maybe he wouldn’t have to resort to the chair after all.

“Does she have a name?” All he had to do was complete the tasks given to him. Well, he hadn’t been tasked with shutting up just yet.

Ren ignored the question, largely because the answer was no. He’d named his fighter easily, but even though he’d owned this shuttle for a standard year and a half, it only had its standard factory designation to go by. The fact that he’d accidentally modeled it after a certain Corellian freighter lent to the problem, more than likely.

This new train of thought was enough to distract him from the fact that SP-3477 was already far chattier than the Knight would have liked.

He raised the ramp and didn’t even bother to conceal the curt sigh that hissed through his modulator. “Get us under way.”

“Yes, sir.” The fact that Ren had said nothing at all, well. It said plenty. He’d be traveling in style, but it was likely also in silence. As he dropped into the seat, he realized it was probably better this way; after all, he was lucky his mouth hadn’t gotten him killed yet.

“This is SP-3477, departure code has been submitted for evaluation. En route to,” A glance downwards, before he thought better of it. “A classified location. Acknowledge.”

At least the launch itself came to him as easily as breathing. A mild mannered ship, launching from the complete safety of a friendly hangar, into familiar space. They had sheltered in the harbor of this system, heavily populated with inhabitable celestial bodies and not much else.

At least the launch itself kept the pilot busy for awhile, and minimized the number of curious glances he’d sneak Ren’s way. Eventually, even that had run its course. His gloved finger tips wandered the panels, summoning and dismissing the ship’s status over and over.

“Are we planning on making any stops along the way, or is this a straight shot?

SP-3477’s discretion over the comm didn’t go unnoticed, even though Ren had retreated to the booth to busy himself with the motley collection of tech there - it wasn’t terribly far away from the cockpit. He hadn’t partitioned the interior of the shuttle exactly to his liking yet, another project in the growing pile of busy work he kept for himself. The cargo space led into the “commons” which led directly into the cockpit, with no style to speak of. All function.

The brief seconds between the destroyer’s artificial gravity tapering off and that of the shuttle’s kicking in was always an unpleasant sort of float in the pit of his stomach, but it was still the familiar, welcome experience of flight.

At some point, a soft click indicated that Ren had grown frustrated enough with the limited visibility his helmet afforded him to do away with it. He swiped his hand through his hair a couple of times out of habit immediately after, vexed by something entirely unrelated to the pilot’s constant questioning, though he was sure that would start to grate on him within the hour. “No stops. Time is... somewhat of the essence. It will take us five days to reach our destination as it is.”

Five days.

No wonder even Kylo Ren had needed a primary pilot. With the ship now comfortably navigating one of the quieter hyperspace channels, he figured it was alright to put a few meters between himself and the cockpit. And if it wasn’t, he’d probably hear about it from his new and temporary boss.

There were more surprises to be found here than there had been on the exterior. It was more reminiscent of someone’s personal work space rather than a tidy military craft. A soldering tool lay on top of a small pile of wires and a computer board, a project that wasn’t anywhere near recognizable. Some swatches of dark fabric. A trunk with ornate hinges shoved half behind a week’s worth of food.

And an unfamiliar face.

He was surprised, but decided against commentary. He didn’t know what he’d expected to ever see beneath that mask, but it wasn’t anything like that.

Five days. He glanced into his cabin, surveyed it momentarily, and gently half rolled, half kicked his ready bag through the doorway.

Ren wasn’t that old. That was the first thing. Somehow he felt a little safer thinking about it out of sight. He was probably younger than the pilot, even. It’d take a few more looks to figure that out for sure. Those thoughts persisted even after Poe had pulled his helmet off and washed down his face and the back of his head. No matter what the Order promised, the damn helmets just wouldn’t breathe.

Where even was Lehon? With a towel around his neck, he wandered back out to find where the star charts projected against a bulkhead, flipping through them in what was increasingly beginning to feel like a vain pursuit.

“Rakata Prime,” he muttered abruptly, never taking his focus off of his work yet following the pilot’s every movement all the same. Movement, general vein of thought, the stronger emotions that flickered to the surface; every facet of SP-3477’s existence within this ship was being monitored, whether it was made obvious or not. Ren clarified his statement. “The charts will call it Rakata Prime. Quadrant H14. We’ll stray close to Wild Space to get there.” Never a sentence any pilot wanted to hear.

Finally, Ren opted to lift his eyes to get a more literal look at the man he’d be spending these next weeks with. A mop of curly dark hair and quick, deep-set eyes that hid little. He may have encountered SP-3477 in passing at some point, he realized, but couldn’t place the time. The drilling stare that followed SP-3477 didn’t waver. “I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“Not a problem, sir.” There was a little restrain behind the reply. If they planned on dropping out of this channel and just beyond the edge of civilized space, Poe couldn’t hang back and make chit chat with his delightful host.

“I’ll be in the hot seat if you need me.”

And so for the next forty eight hours, the cockpit became his home away from home. Ren seemed insistent on the fact he had enlisted Poe’s service for a reason, and that he was too busy to monitor the systems.

They barely spoke, and that might have been the most difficult aspect of this for him. Alright, maybe it was second to constantly having to stay glued to the screens watching for unfriendly contact, but it was a close second. Even among the ranks of the First Order, Poe’d managed to build comradery; sometimes, even dangerously close to friendship.

“We’re nearly there,” He called as he wandered back into the common area, although he lingered close enough to keep an ear out for any alerts.

Did Ren ready know that? He probably already knew that. Poe rubbed one hand against his face, already well aware of just how strained his eyes were from watching the scanners. “Have you been here before?”

Nothing happened at first. An eyebrow cocked in what seemed to be amusement while the curious particles still danced between Ren’s hands. “Actually, yes.”

He hadn’t moved a centimeter, but a phantom hand began to close around SP-3477’s throat, slowly yet inevitably. Ren took his time as he stored his project in a small wooden box and swung his boots off of the table to regard the strangling man. “I wanted to remark on how quickly you seem to have forgotten your place - if you knew it to begin with, pilot.” Thinly veiled rage hid behind a mask of boredom as Ren spoke, as much as he tried to keep his voice low and level. Just before SP-3477’s face had a chance to turn uglier shades of purple, he allowed the man breath.

“And to think we were getting along so well.”

People had always told him that he was lucky. There was no denying that he had unmatched skills as a pilot, sure, but there was something else to it. He’d been born under just the right star, and therefore had a _way_ of getting himself out of situations that no one should have survived.

Once the vertigo began to ebb, Poe realized he could definitely chalk this up as one of this situations.

His knees ached, and he now realized he’d ended up on them. His hands braced against the cold metal of the floor, struggling to hold himself upright as he took one greedy gulp of breath after the other. There’d been a time like this before, his canopy cracked and split in a foreign atmosphere, the planet trying to strangle him before he’d even set foot on it.

Still, he’d never felt a hand close around his throat like that. Even if it’d been in his head, it’d been a human hand. It’d been the most personal attempt at his life yet.

He had to fight off a smile, something that was relieved and tired all rolled into one. “Permission to prepare for arrival on Lehos, sir?” One of those hands struggled to find purchase on the back of that booth so that he might pull himself back up, trembling even then.

No panic. Not even a remotely worthy amount of fear emanated from the pilot, and oddly, Ren found himself almost impressed. Most of those on the receiving end of such treatment wet themselves at least a little. His previous anger returned to its customary simmer when it became apparent he’d made his point. "My Lord was nice, keep using that one,” Ren drawled. He stepped around SP-3477 to take a seat in the cockpit before the pilot could recover.

Rakata Prime glittered bright as any jewel. Its seas and archipelagos came into view as Ren eased the shuttle into atmosphere, briefly surveying a map he’d thrown up on the display before choosing to land on a fragmented slab of duracrete that had once been a proper landing pad. It remained serviceable enough, despite the havoc the elements had wrought. The palms surrounding the pad shuddered with the impact and sent golden birds tumbling into the sky.

Even from the cockpit, one could see the abuse the planet had suffered; the landscape had not been formed by natural means, but rather systematically destroyed over millennia by ancient civil wars and conflicts much more recent. The history of it Ren knew intimately, but it hadn’t prepared him for how the planet felt. The very air was steeped in the Force, something that gave Ren more dread than reassurance, thanks to previous experience with this sort of world. Snoke had failed to mention that he’d be contending with this.

After powering the shuttle’s systems down and ensuring security protocols were in place lest any surprise visitors think to take a joyride, Ren shoved himself out of the cockpit and towards the hold, hardly glancing towards the pilot to see how he was faring. “Prepared to disembark?”

[sw5w]

Two Jedi

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 00:02:45

[sw5w]

The Droid Army

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 00:02:31

MOVIE: Episode I - The Phantom Menace CHARACTERS: 2296, 2391, DFS-1015, DFS-1138 DROIDS: OOM security battle droid, Vulture-class droid starfighter TIME: 32 BBY EVENTS: Blockade of Naboo ORGANIZATIONS: DFS Squadron, Trade Federation, Trade Federation Droid Army MISCELLANEA: outer hangar zone bulkhead doors, starboard outer hangar

[sw5w]

Now This is Podracing!

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:03:11

[sw5w]

Middle Hangar

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:58:47

[sw5w]

Through the Bulkhead Doors

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:58:47

[sw5w]

Anakin Speeds Past the Landing Craft

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:58:47