Wing Commander in Real Time - Day 2 - 0130 Zulu

Script

37 EXT. SPACE - VEGA SECTOR, ENYO SYSTEM

Two Confederation Rapier fighters streak across the

blackness towards a distant fleck, reflecting light from a

distant sun.

The fleck resolves itself into the Diligent.

SC. 38 OMIT

39 INT. DILIGENT - BRIDGE

Blair is at the con. Paladin has been summoned to the

bridge. Maniac joins them.

BLAIR

Fighters from the Tiger Claw. They've

queried us.

PALADIN

Send the countersign.

Blair punches a button. A coded burst crackles over the

intercom. Followed by another burst.

BLAIR

Identification acknowledge. They'll

escort us in.

40 EXT. DILIGENT AND RAPIERS

The two star fighters bracket the larger merchantman. The

three craft now head for another distant fleck half

illuminated in the distant. The Tiger Claw.

41 EXT. TIGER CLAW

SUPERIMPOSE: UNITED CONFEDERATION SHIP TIGER CLAW - ON

PATROL IN VEGA SECTOR, ENYO SYSTEM

The three craft slowly approach the carrier class capital

ship. The huge flight deck doors open, catching the

Diligent and the fighters in a broad beam of yellow light.

The Diligent fires its boosters and eases into the flight

deck. The huge doors close. The Rapiers bank sharply in

unison and veer away to continue their patrol.

42 INT. TIGER CLAW - FLIGHT DECK

Marine guards scan the identity badges and examine the

orders of the two new lieutenants, MOS, then step back and

salute. Paladin's ID is also electronically scanned.

The three walk towards the elevators, passing the flight

deck.

The flight deck is busy, as repair crews struggle to patch

combat damage from the last engagement -- we get the sense

that the Tiger Claw has seen a lot of action.

PALADIN

Well, gentlemen, don't think I haven't

enjoyed your company.

MANIAC

We won't...Sir.

BLAIR

So what about the tattoo?

PALADIN

You know what it is?

BLAIR

It's a Kilrathi marker. You were a

prisoner of war.

PALADIN

That's right. I was on the Iason when

they took her.

BLAIR

The Iason. That was the first ship to

have contact with the Kilrathi. There

weren't any survivors.

PALADIN

I guess not.

Elevator doors open. PALADIN steps in.

BLAIR

Why don't you have it removed?

PALADIN

Let's just say, it helps me not forget.

BLAIR

Not forget what?

PALADIN

Why I fight.

Doors start to close.

MANIAC

So what exactly do the Kilrathi look

like?

PALADIN

...They're ugly.

(directly to Blair)

Good luck.

43 INT. TIGER CLAW - FLIGHT DECK

Doors close. BLAIR and MANIAC look at one another start

to walk the huge flight deck, check out the Rapiers arranged in

a neat row along the side of the flight deck. Like the

Tiger Claw, the Rapiers have obviously seen a lot of

combat.

The same for a group of larger Broadsword medium bombers

that occupy another part of the deck. Maniac and Blair

tote their kit bags among the star craft.

MANIAC

I don't see the X.O.

He spots a beautiful blond, in grease covered overalls,

working on a Broadsword.

MANIAC

Maybe she can help.

He moves off and engages the blond in conversation, MOS.

Blair shakes his head, ducks under the Broadswords belly

and continues on. He stops and admires a BATTLE WORN

Rapier, its cockpit open, allowing himself to daydream.

He finds A CLIPBOARD that shows the Rapier's mission

status. He cans it for a moment, then, a kid-like gleam

in his eye, climbs into the cockpit.

He gets the feel of the controls...

Then, he's distracted by a feminine voice behind him.

DEVEREAUX (O.S.)

Two Dralthis on your tail -- one above,

one below.

He looks down at his inquisitor. JEANETTE (ANGEL) DEVERAUX

is brunette, looks about thirty-two, her hair up, wearing

an oil-stained disposable plasticine coveralls -- a socket

wrench in one hand, and a small x-ray scanner in the

other.

DEVERAUX (Cont'd)

You've got five, maybe ten seconds --

the clock is ticking. What do you do?

BLAIR

Simple. I go vertical and inverted --

do a 180 at full throttle -- apply the

breaks -- and drop behind them...

DEVERAUX

Bang. You're dead. Not fast enough.

Dralthis are too quick -- particularly

in a climb. You've just taken a missile

up your tail-pipe.

Blair meets her gaze -- she has a streak of carbon

lubricant across an otherwise unblemished and beautiful

face.

DEVERAUX

Reverse the situation. You're locked on

a Dralthi. It goes evasive -- enters an

asteroid belt. Clock is ticking.

She starts removing the disposable coveralls.

BLAIR

If I'm locked on, there's no such thing

as evasive--

DEVERAUX

(getting irritated)

Bang. Dead again -- it's an ambush:

five or six fighters hide behind rocks

the size of your swollen head and

pounce - a Kilrathi gang-bang.

(a beat)

What's the matter, did I bruise your

ego?

Blair's getting pissed.

BLAIR

No, I'm just not used to getting combat

tips from a Grease Monkey --

Deveraux steps out of the coveralls, folding them to the

size of a washcloth. She's in uniform, wearing her

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER'S INSIGNIA.

DEVERAUX

Lt. Commander Deveraux. Your Wing

Commander. You have a name, nugget?

Blair snaps to attention and salutes her.

BLAIR

Lt. Blair, Ma'am....

MANIAC has wandered over. He enjoys the show.

DEVERAUX

If you want to play at being a fighter

pilot, I suggest you find a virtual fun

zone. Meanwhile, step down from the

Rapier.

Flustered, Blair climbs down from the Rapier. On his way

down he notices a callsign on the side of the rapier -

LT. CMDR CHEN - "BOSSMAN" painted next to TWENTY SIX KILL

MARKS. The name and kill marks are partially obscured by

a large SCORCH MARK that runs the length of the rapier

a clue that this fighter has taken some damage and been

patched back together.

BLAIR

Ma'am, the mission sheet said it was

unassigned. I apologize -- I didn't

realize it was Bossman's.

DEVERAUX

Who?

Blair looks at the name again -- Did he read it right?

BLAIR

Lt. Cmdr Chen -- Bossman.

(off Deveraux's look)

Who got all these Kills?

Deveraux takes the clipboard from him.

DEVERAUX

What are you doing on the flight deck,

anyway?

MANIAC

(blurts out)

Looking for the X.O., Ma'am.

Deveraux nods towards A TALL OFFICER, COMMANDER PAUL

GERALD, at the far end of the flight deck.

DEVERAUX

You found him.

Deveraux turns on her heels and strides off. Blair

watches her go.

Storyboards

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Novelization

CHAPTER 6

REQUISITIONED MERCHANTMAN DILIGENT

MARCH 16, 2654 0130 HOURS ZULU TIME

VEGA SECTOR ENYO SYSTEM

ENROUTE TO TCS TIGER CLAW

"Where are you going, Daddy?"

"I'm sorry, Christopher. Daddy has to go to work now. There's a war he has to fight."

"What's a war?"

"It's… I don't know. It's just bad."

"Then why do you go?"

"It's my job."

"Stay with me, Daddy. Don't go."

"Bye, Christopher. Give me a hug."

"Don't go, Daddy. Please don't go."

"Hey, what the hell's the matter with you, Blair? Hello, Blair. Come

back to us."

After blinking hard, Blair looked at Marshall's angular face, then at his

nav display. ETA to TCS Tiger Claw: three minutes. Marshall shoved his

shoulder. "You all right, bro?"

"Yeah. Just… thinking."

He gestured to the viewport. "Well, start thinking about those birds."

Two Confederation Rapiers flew straight toward the Diligent, their

rotating nose cannons and short forward wings lending to them a deadly

visage that would awe even the most casual spectator. Bright running

lights flashed on both craft, switched on only during routine escort

missions. Observing the fighters made Blair itch with the desire to fly one

of them instead of the clunky merchantman. He slid over the comm

control. "They've queried us. Better get the captain up here."

Marshall mocked a fit of vomiting. "Oh, that would be my pleasure."

Blair punched in the senior officer's frequency. First Lieutenant Tanaka

Mariko clicked into view on the left screen, her face hidden behind her

headgear. "Merchantman Diligent. This is Black Lion One. Request

authorization code for approach to TCS Tiger Claw, roger. Broadcasting

sign now."

"Affirmative, Black Lion One," Blair said. "Stand by."

"Send the countersign," Taggart said, coming up behind Blair. "And

thank you for waiting. I see you've read and understand the regs manual."

Blair craned his head, even as Taggart stared unflinchingly at Marshall.

The two held their gazes until Marshall broke the duel.

After dialing up the signal, Blair threw a toggle. A coded burst of static

crackled over the intercom, followed by another burst. Blair read the

display. "Identification acknowledged. They'll escort us in."

The Rapiers broke off and wheeled around to bracket the ship. A

distant, shining fleck stood dead ahead.

Marshall moved to the viewport to glance at the fighters. "I never get

tired of looking at 'em."

"You should get used to this view," Taggart said.

Spinning on his heel, Marshall pursed his lips tightly and poured

poison into his eyes. "Sir. May I speak freely?"

"I suppose that's a threat. Go ahead."

"What's your problem?"

Blair shot to his feet and directed an index finger at Marshall. "Don't go

there."

"Mr. Blair. Fly my ship. I'll handle this." Taggart marched up to

Marshall and circled him like a rabid drill sergeant. "My problem is that I

care too much, Lieutenant. I care too much about idiots like you who

sneer at protocol and fly like you own the war. You guys stand in line,

waiting to get blown out of the sky. Yeah, I got your number, Lieutenant

Marshall. I see you coming from a light-year away—and so will the

Kilrathi."

Although Marshall did not move, Blair guessed that he wanted very

badly to smirk and roll his eyes.

Taggart paused to get squarely in Marshall's face. "From here on out I

suggest you get your priorities straight, understand the mission, your

place in it, and stow that pathetic ego. No one ever flies alone. No one."

After letting that sink in, Taggart plopped into his captain's chair.

Slowly, Marshall shifted back toward the viewport, mumbling

something.

Blair sighed and regarded Taggart, filling his gaze with understanding,

but the man would not look at him. Taggart studied the growing form of

the Tiger Claw as her enormous flight deck doors rolled open.

Burying the awkwardness of the moment in his job, Blair slipped the

Diligent into her final approach vector, then engaged the autopilot. The

Heads Up showed a green outline of the carrier and the vector's "red

carpet" runway grid. Blair looked beyond the HUD to marvel at the carrier

as they drew closer to her bow. She resembled a 700-meter-long gray

cylinder tapered at the ends and split into port and starboard halves. A

narrow rectangular structure joined the halves and served as a runway to

stern and a colossal hangar bay amidships. Massive doors permitted

access to the bay from the upper deck or the stern (the latter approach

most used by starfighter pilots who would plunge into the Claw's innards

to land). Far above the runway, past some of the hundreds of lights that

dotted her hull, rose the carrier's bridge, a circular superstructure on the

starboard side that stood in tribute to the ancient sea carriers that had

clearly inspired the Trojan Four Spaceyards engineers who had designed

her. Despite the tradition of her silhouette, she boasted state-of-the-art

firepower. Eight dual laser turrets had been mounted equidistantly apart

on her hull and covered the full sphere of vacuum. A main battery jutted

out from each half of her bow, and triangular sleeves of battle-scarred

armor shielded personnel operating the big cannons. The sealed hatches of

missile tubes subtly reminded her enemies that even more death lay

within her bowels.

Indeed, the Tiger Claw, though patched up here and there, remained

powerful. In fact, if you took her in with a quick glance, you would swear

that she reached out in challenge to any cap ship that dared defy her

perimeter. She had attitude in spades; few would deny that.

As the escort fighters swerved away to continue their patrol, a broad

tractor beam lanced out from a turret below the Claw's flight deck and

seized the Diligent. Blair's autopilot automatically disengaged, and retros

fired, helping the beam to ease the merchantman down and through the

clear energy field that separated atmosphere from vacuum. The beam's

force grew weaker, and Blair took over. The ship settled onto a dull,

ocher-colored deck heavily stained by hydraulic fluid, its landing pads

outlined in bright yellow. The huge doors closed slowly over them.

"Switching systems to accept moorings," Blair announced, punching in

the command.

"Good work," Taggart said. "Auto power down in progress. Message

from flight control. The XO will meet you on the deck. Go fetch your gear."

"Thank God," Marshall muttered.

Five minutes later, two Confed Marines in burnt sienna deck uniforms

approached the Diligent's loading ramp. Blair and Marshall trudged down

toward them, their shoulders already sore under the weight of their

duffels.

"IDs?" the male jarhead said curtly.

Blair produced his identity badge, and the Marine waved a scanner

over it. "Do you have your orders card, Lieutenant Blair? I'll need to see a

hard copy as well."

"Duh," Marshall said, shouldering his way toward the Marine. "You

think we're here to gamble and eat too much?"

"Don't mind him," Blair told the Marine. "He's having a little trouble

with his bodily functions. I'll get him to sickbay right away."

The Marine gave Marshall a stupid grin, then his eyes snapped wide

open. "Officer or not, you will shut your hole and wait your turn."

Marshall swore under his breath as Blair handed the Marine his orders

card.

Once they finished the interminably long check-in, Blair suggested that

they wait for Taggart to at least say good-bye.

"Now that," Marshall said, "is humorous."

Blair dropped his duffel. "I'm waiting."

With a hand on his brow, Marshall paced for a moment, then slipped

off his own duffel. "You're right. We should wait. I'm not finished with

him."

Having quickly developed a numbness to Marshall's belligerent

remarks, Blair moved off to survey the immense rectangular flight deck. A

half-dozen or more columns on either side of the deck rose thirty meters,

joined overhead by a latticework of durasteel. Behind the columns stood

rows of Hornets, Rapiers, Scimitars, Broadswords, and Raptors, many

being serviced by orange-suited flight crews who hung from open cockpits,

scorched wings, and pockmarked fuselages. One tech attached

multicolored fuel and hydraulic lines to a Raptor whose nose had been

removed to repair her electrical system. A miasma of heated metal, jet

fuel, hydraulic fluid, and burning rubber hung heavily in the air, despite

the best efforts of the ship's recyclers. While civilians would crinkle their

noses at the smell, Blair smiled. I'm home. As he touched a bulkhead

adjacent to the lift doors and came upon a patch welded there, he noticed

the carrier's age, evident in that patch and the hundreds of others that

freckled her walls. "You've seen a lot of action," he whispered. "Guess you'll

see a lot more."

"Hey, what are you doing?" someone familiar asked.

Blair turned in Taggart's direction. "Waiting for you. Just wanted to

say thanks for the lift."

The captain paused before them. "Well, gentlemen, don't think I

haven't enjoyed your company."

Marshall bore his teeth. "We won't. Sir."

Not wasting a second on Marshall, the captain focused on Blair.

"I'm headed for the lift over there," he said, tipping his head toward the

doors fifty meters away. "See you. And good luck."

Lifting his duffel, Blair said, "I'll walk with you."

"I won't," Marshall said.

Blair hurried after the captain. "Marshall? I'll meet you back here." He

didn't wait for the expected reply and finally caught up with Taggart.

"Before you go, tell me about your tattoo."

"You know what it is?" Taggart asked, lifting his voice over the

collective whine of power tools.

"I think I got it figured out. It's a Kilrathi marker. You were a prisoner

of war."

"I was on the lason when they took her."

That caught Blair off guard. "The lason? She was the first ship to have

contact with the Kilrathi. You served under Commander Andropolos?"

Taggart nodded. "We encountered a spacecraft of unknown origin,

transmitted a wideband, nonverbal greeting, and waited. Four hours later

she fired upon us with all batteries. But you know the story."

"Yeah. And I know there weren't supposed to be any survivors from the

lason."

"I guess not."

They reached the lift doors, which slid apart. Taggart stepped inside

and turned around.

"Why don't you have it removed?" Blair asked, staring at the captain's

neck, the tattoo partially exposed.

"Let's just say it helps me remember."

"Remember what?"

"Why I fight."

The doors began to close.

Blair stepped forward. "Wait. I've seen photos and holos, but what do

the Kilrathi look like? I mean, in the flesh?"

"They're ugly. Good luck."

The doors sealed.

"Right," Blair muttered, then hurried back to the other lift, where he

found Marshall ogling a blonde tech whose smooth skin and lithe figure

seemed incongruous with her greasy coveralls. She stood beneath a

Broadsword bomber, dismantling one of its mass driver cannons with a

power wrench.

"I don't see the XO," Marshall said, his gaze still riveted to the tech.

"I can see why."

"Maybe she can help." He strutted toward the woman, his boots barely

touching the deck.

Blair ambled toward a row of Rapiers, still searching the room for their

welcoming party. He came to the first fighter, number thirty-five. Her

heavily patched armor and carbon scoring bespoke numerous round trips

to Hell. He felt like a kid as he pictured himself in the cockpit, diving onto

a Dralthi's tail, locking target, and—

He repressed a chill and lifted a computer slate from a rolling tool cart.

The slate showed the fighter's mission status. She had come in less than

eight hours earlier from a sortie on the fringe of the Enyo system. Her next

pilot had yet to be assigned. Not bothering to read more, Blair replaced

the slate and hurried up the cockpit ladder. He peered furtively around the

deck for a second and, seeing that no one watched, climbed into the pit.

Although the instrument panels remained dark, he could easily imagine

the left Visual Display Unit reporting battle damage, the right VDU

showing options for the vidcom system and the targeting screen. The

circular radar display, just left of center, depicted a wave of red blips

above him. "Break and attack," he told his ghostly wingman.

"Two Dralthis on your tail—one above, one below."

Blair felt a jolt in his gut, then looked down toward his inquisitor. In

her late twenties, she stood nearly as tall as him, her shoulder-length hair

a deep brown laced with gold curls. The shadows beneath her eyes and

streak of lubricant on her cheek did little to mar her beauty. However, the

oil-stained disposable plasticine coveralls she wore weren't exactly

flattering on anyone. With a socket wrench in one hand, an x-ray scanner

in the other, she raised a thin brow and continued: "You've got five, maybe

ten seconds—the clock is ticking. What do you do?"

"Simple. I go vertical and inverted, do a one-eighty at full throttle,

apply the brakes, and drop in behind them."

"Bang. You're dead. Not fast enough. Dralthis are too

quick—particularly in a climb. You've just taken a missile up your

tailpipe."

No lower-ranked tech had ever spoken to Blair this way. What did she

hope to prove? Was she bitter over not being a pilot? Why the callous

shield?

"Okay. Reverse the situation," she said. "You're locked on a Dralthi. It

goes evasive, enters an asteroid belt. Clock is ticking."

With a loud snort, Blair pointed ahead. "I'm locked on. There's no such

thing as evasive because—"

"Bang. Dead again. It's an ambush. Five or six fighters hide behind

rocks the size of your swollen head and pounce—a Kilrathi gang-bang."

An intense heat washed into Blair's face, and he balled his hands into

fists.

She set down her tools and began untying her coveralls. "What's the

matter? Did I bruise your ego?"

"No. I'm just not used to getting combat tips from a grease monkey."

As the words left Blair's mouth, he saw her step out of the coveralls to

reveal her blood-red flight suit. The insignia on that suit indicated the

extent of Blair's foolishness.

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Jeanette Deveraux—your wing

commander. You have a name, nugget?"

Blair straightened and saluted her, not that his after-the-fact respect

would mean anything. "Lieutenant Christopher Blair, ma'am."

"Well, Lieutenant. If you want to play at being a fighter pilot, I suggest

you find a virtual fun zone. Meanwhile, step down from the Rapier."

Feeling as though his face would burst into flames, Blair rose and set

foot on the cockpit ladder. As he descended, he noticed the pilot's name in

bright yellow letters along the pit's edge: Lt. Commander Vince "Bossman"

Chen. Twenty-six Kilrathi paws representing kills had been set in neat

rows beside the name, a scorch mark slashing through them. "Ma'am, the

mission slate said this fighter was unassigned. I apologize. I didn't realize

it was Bossman's."

"Who?"

"Lieutenant Commander Chen. Bossman." Blair gazed back at the

Rapier. Had he read the name correctly? Yes, he had.

Deveraux's face creased even more.

Puzzled, Blair crossed to the tool cart and lifted the computer slate. "If

this fighter's not his, then who got these twenty-six kills?"

She wrenched the slate from his hand. "What are you doing on the

flight deck, anyway?"

"Looking for the XO," Marshall said, arriving at Blair's side.

Shifting her gaze to the far end of the flight deck, Deveraux nodded to a

tall officer. "You found him." She turned on her heels and strode off.

"I'm proud of you, Blair," Marshall said, patting his back. "Even from

back there I could tell you were defying authority. Some day these

hardasses will appreciate our creativity."

"That hardass is our new wing commander. And I've made a wonderful

first impression."

"She'll get over it. They always do. Or she'll get whacked and you won't

have to worry about it. Either way, you're in the clear, buddy. Now, c'mon.

Smiley over there is waving us over."

Blair looked to the XO, a man with a deeply grooved face who had once

smiled back in 2649, though no hard evidence existed to prove that

rumor.