The Academy Years

Meeting a Maniac

It was a tired, nervous and impatient group. We'd gathered here the night before, 1200 kids who had traveled from the corners of Confederation space, to take the shuttle to the Space Naval Academy on Hilthros. We were the 201st plebe class, and after a short orientation by Midshipman Third Class Tanaka Mariko, we'd been ordered to report early the next morning for our flight to the new facility.

The ship was absolutely immense. Only 1199 of us reported on time, so we were stuck in the launch bay, worried about meeting our jump time to Hilthros. We were waiting for Todd Marshall and gassed that he was delaying our flight. After all, we had worked toward this goal for 18 years and were ready to get the show on the road. The anticipation was devastating.

The cabin door suddenly burst open and a panting, red-faced Marshall stumbled in. He tossed his duffle into the overhead storage compartment and turned to Lt. Mariko.

"I know I'm late, but I had to say my goodbyes to that waitress from the sky-lounge," Marshall said with a wide grin, "and she wouldn't let me go. I'm sure my classmates don't mind. After all, I'm the one who's going to shatter every academy record and graduate Number One in the class."

The hoots and groans died down when the passengers noticed the rage building in Mariko. The red face, tight jaws, and clenched fists were a dead giveaway.

"Stow your gear and hold your tongue, catbreath," she bellowed. "You're starting your space academy career with 15 demerits and the only record you're likely to break is for the number of times you pull KP or worse."

Mariko stalked toward him until only two inches separated her face from his.

"We're at war, Mister. And from what I've seen so far I could put your brain on a spoon and it would look like a marble rolling around in one of the moon's craters. That's not a great recommendation for a prospective combat pilot. Now take your seat and stay out of my sight."

Unfortunately, the only empty seat was next to me. "Boy, she's a bit touchy this morning," he whispered.

"I can understand why," I replied.

For the next three hours, Marshall treated me to the "short" version of his life story. He boasted of his grade point average, placement-test scores, athletic prowess and sexual conquests. He was undaunted when I tried to nap, and would nudge me repeatedly before continuing to harangue me with stories of his flying experiences (his father owned a charter flight service on Leto) and educational awards. The guy was as cocky as anyone I'd ever met, and personified almost everything I find unattractive in an individual.

Finally I lost it. I reached over, grabbed the front of his shirt and twisted. "Marshall," I whispered, "I'm giving you only one chance. Steer clear of me or you'll think you've run into a runaway laser saw with a taste for flesh. If you're good, you can prove it at the academy, but words won't impress me."

The Plebe's Handbook

A voice came over the shuttle's speaker system and cut through my anger. "We're approaching our jump point, so please return all tray tables to the upright position and fasten your safety harnesses. The captain will turn on the harness light when it is safe to move about the cabin."

Although the gee-force effects were negligible, the change in our speed was reflected in a dazzling light show outside the porthole. Apparently, new ranges of the light spectrum become visible when the neutron warp drive is enabled. It seemed like an hour, but it was only minutes before the jump was completed and the lights were replaced by black space.

Mariko walked to the front of the cabin, grabbed a micro-phone, and turned to face the 1200 plebes. "You're in for a surprise when we arrive at the academy," she announced. "I will pass out the official plebe handbook and I strongly suggest you take the last three hours of our trip to study it. Don't waste any time." I took my book and began reading. I noticed that Marshall was already asleep.

The handbook detailed everything expected of a plebe. It explained how beds were to be made, shoes and buckles shined, and the exact placement of every piece of clothing in the footlockers in each room. An entire section dealt with the 800-year-old Honor Code that would guide our actions throughout the next four years. The honor code wasn't a written regulation, but a principle that bound every midshipman. Basically, it stated that lying, cheating, and stealing would not be tolerated. In practice, it also meant that a midshipman must report any instances of lying, cheating, or stealing. A middie who knew of such behavior without reporting it was as guilty as the individual who commit-ted the act.

The regs also included more than 50 lists that we were expected to memorize, information on formations, mail call, tele-phone usage, and restrictions on relationships between the sexes.

As I thumbed through the book, a single folded sheet fluttered to the floor between my feet. On the front was written A Special Message from the 1st Class. I picked up the sheet and turned the page to discover the following:

As a Plebe, you represent the lowest form of life at the TCSNA. You are lower than a sand worms in the Brim-stone System, lower than the bilge in an ancient frigate, lower than a hairball in a Kilrathi's innards. Until the end of your first year, you will be known as "youngsters," and as such, you will cater to the whims o f those who arrived at the academy before you. The members o f the 3rd, 2nd and 1st classes o f the academy look forward to your imminent arrival.

Before applying to the academy, I had read every article I could find about life at the most prestigious educational institution in the galaxy. I was astounded to learn how many traditions had managed to remain intact through so many years. Since the beginning of the Galactic War, however, the focus had changed. While the original space academy was preparatory to flight and support classes, since 2634, when war officially had been declared, the academy had become a training ground for combat pilots and support personnel. In any event, I felt I was prepared for anything. It wouldn't take long for me to discover just how naive I had been.

A Welcoming Committee

We docked at Hilthros and proceeded by grav-sled to the academy grounds. Marshall had latched on to a couple of nervous-looking plebes and was regaling them with the same tall tales I had already heard. When the door slid open, the two suns of the system were blinding. The sound was deafening.

"Move it, you pitiful collection of brain-dead mutants!" The words came from the lips of a middie who looked like he might have eaten a jar full of razor blades for breakfast. His voice must have been amplified with reverb. "Double-time to the white lines, drop your gear, fall in and do it now!"

We stumbled all over ourselves as we scrambled to the white lines. Other middies collected our duffles and threw them in a growing pile.

"Stand at attention, arm's length apart, suck in your guts, eyes front, hands at your sides, and no talking!" barked the officer. It took 1200 of us some time to form our lines, and I must admit we were not a pretty sight.

"I'm Midshipman Lieutenant Mickey Bitscoe, and I have the unfortunate, and incredibly dull task of leading you through your first day at the academy. As you can imagine, I am not a happy man..." Suddenly, he stopped and stared down the line to my left. I cut my eyes in the same direction and saw that Marshall had stepped forward and raised his hand.

"This oughta be good," I thought.

The lieutenant stalked toward Marshall. A sneer was grow-ing as he approached the grinning cadet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems that one of your friends has a problem. I enjoy solving problems," he said. His tone was dripping with sarcasm. "Is there something I can help you with, youngster?" he crooned.

"Well, sir, I was just wondering about those duffle bags. Where are they taking them? You see, I brought along some things to help me decorate my room and I have some other personal effects I brought from Leto that I'll need as soon as ..." The lieutenant cut him off as he put his arm around Marshall and led him forcefully to a position in front of the formation. We'd only been standing outside for a few minutes, but sweat was already staining our clothes.

"I really thought everyone in this year's class would have a three-digit IQ," the lieutenant bellowed. "Obviously I was mistaken. Since Mr. Marshall is so concerned about his gear, I'm going to allow him to load all 600 bags on the conveyor while we wait. He won't, however, load his own bag. That one he can carry with him for the rest of the day. "

It took Marshall almost two hours to finish his task. Meanwhile, the rest of us stood at attention and watched beads of perspiration drip onto the grey dust of Hilthros. The lieutenant sat in the shade of the grav-sled, sucking on ice cubes. We were really thrilled with Marshall and excited to be standing around.

"What have I gotten myself into?"

The lieutenant called out names and organized 1200 of us into twelve companies. The twelve companies were divided into four battalions and two regiments. I was in 3rd Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Regiment. Marshall was too.

The company commanders, under the direction of Lt. Bitscoe, took over. Then we started marching. We marched to the barber, where we stood in line until everyone's head was shaved. We marched to the medical facility, where we waited in line until everyone had received a physical. We marched to the administration building, the mess hall, and the quartermasters, and we waited in those places too. When the commanders discovered a few minutes of free time, we marched for their amusement, since even six hours of trying to walk in formation hadn't yet taught us to march in step.

The only real respite from the grind came during and immediately after the swearing-in ceremony that night. If fact, until that moment we weren't really plebes. Everyone was milling around after the big event when I saw Marshall heading my way. I tried to duck him, but I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Hey, buddy, I just got some good news," he said. "You know those demerits Mariko gave me on the shuttle - well, they were just a lot of hot air. Since I wasn't a plebe yet, they didn't count. I'm home free!" I congratulated him and walked away.

I really took my commitment to the academy and the Con-federation seriously, but when I finally reached my room that night, I was questioning my sanity. I didn't feel like I had any freedoms left in my life. As a plebe, I couldn't date, couldn't drink, and wouldn't be able to leave the academy for the first time until Thanksgiving. I was being told how to make my bed, stow my gear, and shine my shoes. I was told when to march, when to study, when to appear in class, and when to exercise.

My life was out of control.

The September Blues

It had been a couple of weeks and I really couldn't believe I had put up with all the incessant badgering by the upperclassmen. If it hadn't been the quickest way to learn to fly and the only chance to combine flying with fighting the Kilrathi, I'd have walked a week before and never looked back.

I understood the importance of discipline, the value of following orders, and the need to strip away the veneer of individuality, but I couldn't believe this was the most effective way to teach those goals. I'm afraid I was a casualty of the old-boy network that said, "I put up with all the crap when I was at the academy, and you will too." You'd think 800 years would have resulted in some progress. The only positive change I had heard about was admitting women, and that was almost 700 years ago.

Activity in the mess hall reflected just how incredibly non-sensical this experience could be. I could put up with standing at the table with my food tray until all the upperclassmen were seated. I even sang some of those silly songs at the top of my lungs while perched on one leg on top of the table. One day, though, I almost lost it.

As we all know, table manners are vital to the war effort. We'd been taught that a plebe's left hand always stayed in the lap unless cutting or holding something with a knife. Once you'd finished cutting a food item, the knife was to be placed on the right side of the plate at a 45-degree angle, with the blade facing the inside of the plate. Unfortunately, I was the victim of the dreaded "Protractor Patrol."

I knew someone was behind me, but I never gave it much thought until an incredibly loud "Stand up, youngster!" was shouted into my ear. I jumped up to attention and put on my 'Plebe's Face." That was the one where you stared straight ahead focusing on nothing, set your jaw, and prepared for disaster. This definitely qualified in the disaster category.

To my shock and horror, my knife was measured and found to be resting at 50 degrees. I was stunned.

"Sir, permission to speak, sir." I gave it my best effort. "I must have bumped the table when I stood up, sir. I've spent hours working on my knife-angle routine. I think this is just a big mistake, sir."

"Are you telling me I'm wrong, blister-face?" he intoned. "Are you questioning the integrity of a 1st Classman?"

"N ...N...No, sir," I stammered. "Not wrong, sir. I just think you were so engrossed in studying my table manners that you failed to see me hit the tray when I stood up."

"Give me fifty," he screamed, "while I think up a suitable punishment for your transgression."

I was surprised at his use of three-syllable words, but I hit the deck and started counting out my pushups. By the time I finished, he was ready.

"Since you're obviously not ready for the intricacies of dining with traditional utensils, snail-brain, I've decided that you can dine without them for the next seven days. Both hands will remain in your lap once you're seated in the dining room. If you spill any food, we'll add another week to the punishment. Commence eating."

Why do they have to humiliate us, I thought. It's hard enough passing the white-=glove inspections, making sure you can bounce a nickel off the bunk, and worrying about fingerprints on your spare belt buckles. I've already cleaned a latrine with a toothbrush, packed and repacked my footlocker until the company commander decided I could do it with a blindfold, and stood a three-hour midnight watch over a dead bug found in the hallway outside my room. I was seething as I leaned forward to take a bite of pasta and ended up with sauce all over my nose. Using a napkin with no hands is a real treat as well. Things had to get better, and they did.

The Best of Times

While I was turned off by the academy's juvenile life-style during plebe year, by the end of the first semester the instruction and the opportunity to fly had exceeded my wildest expectations. The schedule was grueling, with classes in physics, calculus, engineering, current events, and military history requiring more study than my first 14 years of school combined. The competition was intense, since only 800 of the original 1200 would make it through the first year. Many washed out due to the rigors of the hazing regimen, but most simply failed to pass the accelerated courses. I wasn't going to make that mistake. I'd come to the academy to learn combat strategy and tactics from the people who had lived it. I wanted take on the Confederation's best in a simulated dogfight, learn about the Kilrathi from people who had encountered them, and fly the most advanced ships in the galaxy. I wanted to be a combat pilot.

First Lessons

We spent hours in the simulator during the first semester, working on launch, recovery, and basic flight drills, but it was pretty boring stuff until we incorporated combat strategy and tactics.

All of a sudden, the atmosphere changed. Everyone buckled down, even Marshall, knowing the information could spell the difference between living and dying.

While official strategy and tactics classes didn't begin until January, the discussion during instrumentation instruction often drifted to issues that affected our decision-making process during battle.

Major Sarlee Rathji, our instructor and a veteran of the McAuliffe Ambush, repeatedly pleaded that "awareness in the cockpit is the key to a successful mission. You'll never become proficient from books, lectures or holo-vids, " she said; "only practice in the simulator and real space can do that. But take these lessons seriously now and they'll turn that vital visual sweep of the cockpit into an unconscious skill. You must be able to determine your ship's and weapon's status, the enemy ship's condition, and the location of friendly and enemy ships in your area. And it must become second nature."

It didn't take us long to realize that our radar was the single most important piece of electronics in the cockpit. After all, what could be more important in a dogfight than knowing where missiles and laser fire were coming from? What other piece of gear tells you whether to launch that Pilum Friend-or-Foe missile that can lock onto your wing-man as easily as your enemy? It was also the least intuitive display, and that created problems.

Before we ever hit the simulator, I pored over the sample radar displays in our training manual, trying to visualize the position of every blip in 3-D space. I thought I knew the information cold, but once we entered the simulator and the operators started moving the blips around, I just couldn't keep track.

I used to go back to my room at night and draw diagrams that tracked the movement of enemies in 3-D space and the resulting radar displays that showed that movement. I never saved those drawings, but I think this same insight they did me.

Radar Screen 1: The Enemy Approaches

It's easy to tell when the enemy is directly ahead: the blips appear in the center scan circle on the screen. The Kilrathi won't you with a head-on approach very often, though. When your wingman screams that the enemy is heading your way, and it's usually more than a single wing under combat conditions, you'd better understand the situation - in a flash!

Radar Screen 2: Caught in the Middle of a Maelstrom

Nothing is more frenzied than a dogfight in the middle of an escort mission. With your wingman, the ship you're escorting, and multiple enemy fighters on-screen, you can quickly develop a case of vertigo. If you can't take in all the information in this diagram in two seconds, you'll probably collide with someone or hear the eject warning real soon.

Radar Screen 3: The Most Threatening Enemy Positions

Kilrathi pilots smell your blind spots and vulnerabilities. Then they go for your throat. When you're concentrating so hard on your target that it's tough to scan all the cockpit displays, just take a quick glance at your radar and look for the following positions. If the blip is red, it's time to kick in the afterburners and try some slippin , slidin , and rotatin'!

Strategy and Tactics in Space Flight Combat

Avoid the Initial Wave of Enemy Fighters

Employ Disciplined Firing Methods

Use Speed Changes in Your Evasive Maneuvers

Give Your Missiles a Chance to Strike

Stay Ready to Use Your Afterburners

Taunt the Enemy

Don't Leave TCSN Capital Ships Unprotected

For Tighter Up or Down Movements, Roll and Turn

Turn and Slide Using Afterburners

Use Target Lock to Direct the Fight

Attack Enemy Capital Ships from the Rear

Joining the War

Next Section: The Vega Campaign