Thoughts and Experiences of Lucius Hopkins

[Armageddon]

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Someone has to do it, so it might as well be you.

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Norfolk, the place where the ships head out from gleaming, repaired and in full working order. When they return… well, the enemy doesn’t care that someone has to fix them do they?

The mechanics, technicians… hell whatever they are calling them this month in hope of fostering crew morale continuously work on repairing and retrofitting ships of all shapes and sizes.

That used to be my job, now I’m one of the brass. Sort of, one of the things about knowing how the ships work under the hood AND knowing how they should act in combat, you are always in demand to make sure the thing works properly.

The techs can dot every I and cross every T on that checklist but sometimes it takes a little bit of know-how from the pilots seat to double check that everything is up to snuff. I mean they can check everything matches the book but nothing beats a few high-G turns to make sure the old girl ain’t gonna fall apart on you the first time you clear the guns.

Let me tell you, you don’t want to be the one caught with your pants down flying into a battle and finding out someone ain’t removed the manual safety from the lasers. That doesn’t make for a fun… experience.

That’s where I come in I suppose. The usual test pilot suffered a blow to the head when he ran into a lucky rogue a little north of west point. So while the guy is resting up in med bay. Someone has to do it. One thing I always had said to myself if I ever made it to the lofty height of the brass, office chairs and coffee makers is that I’d never ask those I command to do something that I wasn’t willing to do myself.

So when the call came down the line I thought it was a good chance to put my credits where my mouth was. So here I am, flight testing some newly repaired guardians. The ‘enemy’ had sure done a number on them as usual.

After the fight on the battlefield there was always the fight behind the front lines. Ensuring that there was an actual ship for a pilot to fly into combat when the time came. Sure, you could just scrap the damaged birds and make new ones, but that would be a waste of resources so it was up to the mech… techs, I corrected myself mentally as I reviewed the paperwork to make sure that as many of the damaged birds were repaired and brought flight ready again. Any that couldn’t be were broken down for spare parts.

Walking through the flight deck I find the guardian with the correct tail number ‘45917’. You could tell where the armour plates had been replaced, shiny fresh plates contrasting against dented and worn dull ones. The engine grates although clean appearing almost black due to the constant flame they had controlled for years.

Not for the first time, I sigh to myself and say “Well Hopkins, you did say you’d help them out with this.” Already in my flight gear I enter the cockpit. Starting the pre-flight checks from memory and requesting launch clearance. All so routine I could do it in my sleep. Though there is one thing that will never get old. When that hangar door opens and I’m pushed back in to the seat by the G forces I feel like I’m home. May that never change.