Marooned

I have heen sitting in my dis-abled starfighter for seventeen hours, now. Lt. McCormic, Bobby, died during the dogfight while we were in orbit of this planet.

We were flying back-up for a routine planet strafing mission. Everything was going by the book. The big Azuma Class warships (three of them) had gone planet-side with a load of "clean" atomics on a search-and-destroy mission. Their payload had a half-life of 24 hours. Nothing would be left alive planet-side; but our colony ships would be able to safely run up our flag when they got here.

Suddenly, from the blind side of the planet, a squadron of Zeek starfighters appeared on our tails. Able Flight took heavy casualties in the sneak attack but Baker, my outfit, was able to roust them and send their survivors running. I had felt a pretty vicious jolt shudder through my fusilage during one of the more intense moments, but I wasn't crippled so I ignored it. As soon as the action was over I pulled around in my harness and asked, "Everything jake back there, Bobby?"

All I got back was static on my headset. "Bobby?" I asked again. This time I was able to get the latch free on my harness (against regs but I intend to clean up this journal before any review board sees it) and got turned around all the way.

Bobby McCormic was dead. Apparently a piece of flying debris from some dead Zeek's starfighter had breached our hull and was finally stopped by poor Bobby's helmet. The goo filling his faceplate didn't even make me want to take his helmet off to inspect the wound (another reg I decided to pass on).

Then, just as I was swearing softly, under my breath, all my red warning lights came on at once and I began losing my hydraulics. I really didn't need this.

I turned back around as quick as I could and struggled to get re-buckled in my now tangled harness (some regs make sense). I flipped on my ship-to-ship com to ask for assistance and was rewarded with sparks and fire showering me from the overhead consol. I really didn't need this.

I knew if I was going to have any chance at all of surviving I'd have to drop out of formation and head dirtside. If the rest of my outfit hadn't been so busy patting themselves on the back, one of the S.O.B.'s might have noticed that Mrs. Hutton's youngest son, Ric, wasn't tagging along.
I really didn't need this.

Now, I am sitting in my dis-abled starfighter, with poor dead Bobby McCormic staring at the back of my head through three inches of goo while I stare at my external radiation counter and wonderer whether it will drop into the green zone before I run out of oxygen.

I'm not taking any bets.