Superhero Stanley Part the Eighth: Life in the Fast Lane
By
Brian R. Kupfer
My angular Canadian sports car, which is almost as old as I am, stood out amongst the other traffic on the city streets.
Honestly, it stands out anywhere I go.
Hell, if you were bright green you would too.
Doesn’t help that the car was only made for two model years, and once I had her parked, she always drew a crowd, what with her gull wing doors and styling out of RoboCop, but on crack.
That, and the videos on YouTube that got leaked of me and a half-dozen PD cruisers chasing down a gang of Satanic bikers had helped the notoriety of the vehicle a bit.
So I’m not all that big on subtlety.
Hell, anyone who straps on body armor and a costume and runs around town bringing vigilante justice, sometimes with, if not the help, then the willing disinterest, of the Police can’t be all that big on subtle to begin with.
When I don’t want to be recognized, I have a dark blue Ford Focus. Whereas there is exactly one Safety Green Bricklin in the whole city, there are close to a gazillion cars like my Focus.
Totem sat in the passenger’s seat, his head out the window, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth.
The Bricklin’s Ford 351 Windsor V-8 grumbled soothingly while we cruised down the nearly empty night streets.
But, hey, Saturday was Halloween, so things were bound to get a little interesting. Combine your normal “Saturday Night’s All Right for Fighting”-style abandon and recklessness with the anonymity and release of and identity-hiding costume, and the sky was the limit for the mayhem that might be ready to uncork in the city.
The Interview
From the second ETF novel
"Pheonix from the Ashes"
by
Brian R. Kupfer
Deciding to see about finding an appropriate aircraft for her flying style, Stacy takes a look around, then notices something partially obscured in the rear, shadow-filled corner, on the left side of the hangar.
Walking towards this shrouded shape and looking more closely, Anrak can start to make out the nose of a legendary SLUFF poking out from underneath the tarp covering it.
Stacy grins and her eyes sparkle when she recognizes the aircraft.
She completed some of her intermediary flight training in the Ling-Temco-Vought A-7D Corsair II before deciding to fly transports.
Watching Stacy start to smile, Aaron is seized by a momentary apprehension.
What if she doesn’t make it in? He wonders, thinking he wouldn’t be averse to bending the rules a little, or a lot, to get his friend on the roster.
This is precisely the reason he will be moderating the test, not actively taking part in it. Otherwise he might adversely affect the outcome of the tests, and then they may not get the best people for the job.
Besides, she’s got that look on her face, I think it’s the others I should be worried about.
“If this old girl still flies, I’ll use her.” Stacy tells Fieldman, nodding at the A-7 in the rear corner.
Aaron looks in the direction the blonde woman is indicating, seeing the LTV A-7D Corsair II sticking out of the gloom back there in the corner for the first time.
“Ah, Stace, that jet’s going to be part of the air park here.” He informs her, looking at the Vietnam-era workhorse. He notices the stubborn set of the woman’s jaw, and realizes, although it seems like a dozen lifetimes have passed in the six years since they have seen one another, Stacy Anrak still doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.
“But let’s take a look, anyway.” Aaron amends with a shake of his head.
The two aviators walk to the corner and pull the heavy tarp off the forty-six foot long aircraft.
The jet is in pretty bad condition, the paint flaking and faded, the tires half flat, cobwebs strung across the folded wings, and bird refuse littering the vehicle.
However, looking it over, Aaron notices that the airframe appears sound, and both the engine and avionics are still attached. This could be a good thing.
“Well, it might fly. You sure about this, Stacy?” Aaron asks her.
She nods in return.
Aaron sighs.
“Okay, let me talk to the MX wing on base and see what kind of rabbit I can pull out of my hat.” He mutters, just before Patrick “Dono” O’Donnell steps off of a ladder near the door and walks over to them.
A few minutes later Wahren “Wolf” Morast, Matt “Shaba” Hunter and Kristine “Golden Eagle” Vermes arrive in one of the dark blue Dodge crew vans that seem to populate every Air Force Base in the free world.
After Aaron has made introductions all around, the assembled aviators start to hear the growl of a pair of Pratt and Whitney F100 turbofans in the distance, rapidly closing, then roaring past overhead, and Matt Hunter grins at them.
“That’s Mukey and his WSO in that F-15E I was telling you about.” He comments to
Wahren.
Morast gives him a look that says, “No shit.”
Overhead, the distinctive three-tone green and gray Strike Eagle crewed by Neal “Mukey” Hirsch and David “Warlock” Samuelson banks to its right while setting up for final approach, the big barn door of an airbrake opening on the aircraft’s spine, its flaps and gear down.
Finishing up their run, Matt "ElTitoBendito" Bendix and Suzanne Wagner look up at the massive air superiority fighter when it swoops overhead, crossing the runway's threshold.
Matt Bendix watches the Strike Eagle during the time it seems to float to a landing, seeing the twin puffs of contact smoke that indicate the main tires have kissed the pavement.
"That's one of the main reasons I joined this outfit, Suzanne." Matt comments to his current running partner, indicating the landing multi-role fighter, "I never get tired of that sight."
"I figured it was all the women you meet." Wagner responds sarcastically.
Bendix looks the shorter blonde-haired woman up and down, slowly, while they jog back towards the BOQ to shower and meet the others, being sure she sees him do so.
"Yeah, the eye candy's a perk, too." He replies with a glint in his eye.
In response, Suzanne slugs him in the shoulder, knocking him off stride.
Why do I put up with you? Her eyes seem to say.
Matt grins in response.
Inside the hangar, Hunter and Morast are crawling around the Corsair II, muttering to themselves and throwing questions at the Randolph maintenance wing, or MX, representative that has just shown up.
After a few minutes, the two men climb down and dismiss the MX man.
"Well, it might just fly. They haven't done anything to it since it landed here back in '84, and were going to gut it and put that tacky blue paint on the canopy before they stick it in the air park, supposedly some time next year. Only one way to find out if she still works." Matt comments.
Wahren grins, climbing up the handholds in the side of the A-7, and finding the release for the canopy.
The glass canopy rises, slowly, when the under-used hydraulics struggle to life, finally lifting the canopy rail enough for a person to fit into the cockpit, which Wahren does while Matt and Aaron attach an auxiliary power unit to the A-7D.
Wahren looks over the simple cockpit for a moment, then flips on the aircraft's power.
Surprisingly, most of the dials light up immediately.
A few flicker for a couple of seconds before coming on, and three stay dark.
Wahren thumps them with his finger, but the stubborn instruments stay unworking.
"Well, we've got juice at least. Valder, get some fuel to this thing." Wahren barks out commands, pointing at the fuel truck parked outside the hangar, "Dono, see if you can find an air pump. Let's find out if these tires are just flat from age or if they're somehow compromised."
Patrick nods before setting off to search the hangar.
While they are scouring the area, a deep throated, immestakeable sound can be heard out on the taxiway, where the F-15E Strike Eagle that has just landed is pulling to a stop near the hangar.
By the time Suzanne and Matt Bendix arrive at 0830, after showering and changing, the A-7D is filling the hangar with the roar of its Alison TF-41-A1 turbofan, and its main gear are almost fully inflated again.
"Looks like you've got a ride, Stacy." Aaron comments to the blonde woman once the engine spools down and they can hear one another.
"Captain Morast?" A Lieutenant calls out from the hangar door.
Wahren looks up from inside the Corsair II's cockpit, arches an eyebrow, then climbs down and walks over to the young officer.
"Yeah?"
The officer looks confused, and rightly so, while looking Wahren over, sure that there are no officers in his Air Force with ponytails and goatees.
Wahren looks him in the eye and says two words.
"Special Operations."
The Lieutenant blinks, swallows hard, and nods in response. He has heard that some of the more elite units grow long hair and beards to better blend in with civilians, especially when on secret missions. He also knows no SpecOps member is someone to be trifled with lightly, and, looking around at the people in the hangar, this knowledge is reaffirmed.
“Uh, call for you at Base Ops, Sir."
"All right. Gang, be right back." Wahren calls out to the people assembled in the hangar before jumping into the other officer's staff car.
Star Wars
The Phantom Squadron
By
Brian R. Kupfer
Haw’B’rads looked up from the Comm board and blinked.
“No way.” The dark red-haired man muttered.
He read the message again, just to be sure, then rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and first finger of his right hand.
He then took a deep breath and got up from the console to go find his boss, thier squadron leader.
He already knows he is going to regret the man’s answer for the rest of his life.
Although, with the information he just read, that may not be very long.
Lucius Augustus looks up at the knock on the door to his Officer’s entry portal.
He arches an eyebrow at the door, sets down the logistics file he has been looking over, and puts steel into his voice.
He can feel it, a little flutter in the Force that lets him know a very dangerous mission is just ahead for his team.
He also knows that his half-Chiss, half-Alderaanean X-Wing pilot, Haw’B’rads, is on the other side of his door.
However, he will be sure to hide this knowledge from the pilot about to enter his office, as he has always hidden his force abilities for the last twenty years, since he was lucky enough to escape the purge that was Order 66.
If people knew he had been trained as a Jedi Knight, he would certainly be hunted. It was a certainty in Palpatine’s Empire.
“Come.” Lucius mutters towards the door, and it swishes open, admitting the young pilot.
Haw’B’rads came through the portal before it had fully retracted into the ceiling, a grim look on his blue-tinged face.
“Hey there, Captain Bad Ass Mo…” The pilot starts, halting at the glare from his Commanding Officer.
“Don’t finish that thought, pilot.” Lucius commented, steel in his voice.
“Yessir.” Haw replied with a facetious salute. “Looks like Republic Command’s opinion of us has gone way up. So much so, that if I didn’t know we were on the same side, I’d have the sneaking suspicion they were trying to kill us.” Haw stated wryly, dropping a printout of the information he had received from the Comm station on Lucius’ desk.
Lucius quickly scans the paper before covering his face with his hands.
“Greenley and Otauna are dead.” He muttered through his fingers. “As soon as I get ahold of them, they’re dead.”
* * * * * * *
“We have a clone of the Sith assassin.” Commander Dur’an nodded in confirmation, “But, you know how sometimes cloning isn’t, well, exact?”
He looks over at the Phantom Squadron members with a raised eyebrow after this comment.
“Yeah, and?” Lucius queried warily.
‘Well, he’s….sorta….well, see for yourselves.” The Commander stated while pulling aside a heavy velvet curtain that covers a transparisteel viewport.
All of the Phantom Squadron’s jaws almost hit the floor in unison when they drop in amazement.
There, in the next room, stood the clone of Darth Maul, with the same terrifying black-and-red tattooed face crowned by the stub horns. The clone’s eyes were even that malign-looking shade of orange-yellow.
There, however, the resemblance ended.
The clone was wearing heavy robes, much like the original Maul had, but these robes were sky blue with, of all things, flowers on them.
The clone was happily humming to himself, while wielding his double-bladed yellow lightsaber, viciously chopping up vegetables and dropping them into a stew, using Maul’s superhuman speed to do so.
It was, needless to say, a disturbing sight.
The Commander dropped the drapery over the viewport just as the clone waved cheerily at them.
“What’s….what’s….” Haw’B’rads stuttered.
Lucius thumped him in the back of the head with his open palm.
Haw nodded at him.
“Thanks, boss. What’s wrong with him?” The X-Wing pilot asks Commander Dur’an while inclining his head towards the covered viewport.
“We call him Darth Paul. He’s a little….touched. He has all of Maul’s skills, but none of his anger or drive. But, man he makes a great soufflé.”
Keep the Peepers Peeled Peeps....and now...to bed, then the Motor Trend International Auto Show in the morning.....
No comments:
Post a Comment