Wing Commander in Real Time - Day 2 - 0200 Zulu

Script

44 INT. TIGER CLAW - BRIDGE

CAPTAIN SANSKY, the Tiger Claw's commander officer,

stands at the tactical radar board, plots fighter

security flights with the Radar officer. Fifty and

balding, there's an avuncular quality to the man offset

by battle weary eyes.

BLAIR, GERALD trailing, walks up to Sansky, snaps to

attention, salutes.

BLAIR

Lieutenant j.g. Christopher Blair,

reporting for duty, sir.

SANSKY turns.

SANSKY

At ease, Lieutenant. Commander Gerald

tells me you have something for me.

BLAIR

Yes sir.

BLAIR holds out the mini-disc.

BLAIR (CONT'D)

An encrypted communique -- from Admiral

Tolwyn.

SANSKY

(Squinting at disk)

Why didn't the Admiral send a drone via

Pegasus?

BLAIR

Sir, Pegasus was destroyed by a

Kilrathi battle group seventeen hours

ago.

SANSKY reacts. He takes the disc.

SANSKY

Communications, I want this disc

decrypted ASAP.

BLAIR salutes, start to turn.

GERALD

(to Blair)

You wouldn't be related to Arnold

Blair, would you?

BLAIR steels himself. He lives in fear of this question.

BLAIR

He was my father, sir.

GERALD

He married a Pilgrim woman, didn't he?

BLAIR

(cautious.)

Yes sir.

Sansky is interested, observes Blair closely.

GERALD

Mixed marriages seldom work out.

Pilgrims don't think like us.

Blair takes offense.

BLAIR

You won't have to worry, sir. They're

both dead.

SANSKY

(stepping in.)

I'm sure the lieutenant's heredity will

have no bearing on his performance,

Mister Gerald.

GERALD

No sir. I'm sure it won't.

SANSKY

That's all, Lieutenant. I suggest you

stow your gear and familiarize yourself

with the ship.

Blair can barely contain his anger as he turns and leaves

the bridge. GERALD watches after him.

SANSKY (CONT'D)

You don't trust him?

GERALD

Computer: what are the odds that a

Kilrathi battle group could infiltrate

Confederation space undetected and

destroy Pegasus station?

TIGER CLAW'S artificial intelligence computer responds:

COMPUTER

One chance in one point two one

million. To the tenth power.

GERALD

No, sir, I do not.

SC. 45 OMIT

45A INT. TIGER CLAW - CORRIDOR

BLAIR, still fuming from Gerald's dig, walks the corridor

with MANIAC.

BLAIR

It never changes.

MANIAC

So Gerald's another tight-ass X.O.. So

what? Let it go, we are about to meet

our fellow pilots. The men and women

we are going to fight with, perhaps

even die with and perhaps...

BLAIR

Don't worry, I won't let the fact that

I'm pissed keep you from getting laid.

Maniac throws an arm around Blair's shoulder.

MANIAC

Me? I'm worried about it keeping you from getting laid. I'll show you how to

make friends.

They open the hatch to the Pilot's Mess.

45B INT. TIGER CLAW - PILOTS MESS. CONTINUOUS

Maniac pushes Blair into the room.

MESS is an apt adjective for these cramped quarters.

Defaced propaganda posters, and pin-ups, male and female,

line the walls.

PILOTS are spread out al over the mess -- all is banter

and bullshit.

TWO PILOTS play chess on a beat up old board -- the

anachronism of the game surprising. One of them is

POLANSKI, a male pilot with a long scar running down his

face. The other is FORBES -- female: brains, beauty, and

a warrior's soul.

All of the pilots look up, when Blair and Maniac enter,

then go back to whatever they were doing without saying a

word -- typical hazing shit. Maniac will have none of it.

MANIAC

How's everybody doing? Lieutenant Todd Marshall.

Still silence.

MANIAC (Cont'd)

I'd like you all to meet, my close

personal friend, Lt. Christopher

Blair -- who just happens to be the

second best pilot on this hunk of

junk.

Now several of the pilots look up. These are very

close to fighting words with HUNTER, a male pilot.

HUNTER

Who are you calling the best, nugget?

Forbes looks over her shoulder at Maniac.

BLAIR

So this is the secret to your

overwhelming popularity?

Maniac takes a step towards Hunter who gets to his

feet quickly.

MANIAC

There's two ways to figure that

out...

(reading Hunters name tag)

Hunter. One way involves you trying to

kick the shit out of me --

Hunter squints at Maniac, he has no idea what to make

of guy.

HUNTER

What's the other way?

MANIAC

The other way? That involves my other

close personal friend. Mr. Johnny

Walker Black.

MANIAC produces a bottle of SCOTCH from beneath his

jacket -- good scotch. It seems to be a real rarity and

gets everyone's attention.

HUNTER, looks towards Forbes -- as if she's the

unofficial leader of this bunch.

HUNTER

Forbes?

FORBES

We're on stand down. One won't hurt.

MANIAC

(pouring a drink for Forbes)

It may even help.

The pilots flock around.

FORBES

You got balls.

MANIAC

You should see them.

FORBES

Mine are bigger.

MANIAC

I've been told that size doesn't

matter.

FORBES

She lied.

(to the pilots)

Personally, Hunter, I'd have taken

the third option -- kick his ass

first, then drink his Scotch.

Maniac smiles at her. The pilots laugh. Blair and Maniac

are accepted.

46 INT. TIGER CLAW - CHART ROOM

On a monitor, we see Admiral Tolwyn standing in the

bridge of the Concordia.

TOLWYN

Jay, I'm going to have to be brief.

The Kilrathi took Pegasus. They may

have her NAVCOM A.I.. By the time this

communication reaches you, they will be

twenty-three hours from the Charybdis

jump point and Earth. CONFED capital

ships are headed home now. The

Concordia battle group will be able to

make it in twenty-five hours. I'm

ordering the Tiger Claw to the

Charybdis Quasar. You are to use any

means necessary to gather information

as to the Kilrathi whereabouts,

capacity, and plan of attack. I need

intelligence, old friend. Use Taggart.

He knows this space better than any man

alive -- he can get you to Charybdis quickly.

CAMERA pulls back to reveal SANSKY and GERALD, watching.

GERALD

I don't like it.

SANSKY

No one asked your opinion, Paul

GERALD

Sir, the disk came to us on the

Diligent, entrusted to a Pilgrim half-

breed

Sansky ponders this, nods.

SANSKY

Send for Taggart.

Novelization

CHAPTER 7

UNITED CONFEDERATION CARRIER TIGER CLAW

MARCH 16, 2654 0200 HOURS ZULU TIME

VEGA SECTOR ENYO SYSTEM

During Blair's senior year at the academy, he had flown training

missions off the TCS Formidable, an Exeter-class destroyer assigned to

the Vega sector. He had been on the Formidable's bridge only a few times

but had seen enough to fill his heart with awe. Now, as he stepped onto

the bridge of the Tiger Claw, a carrier nearly twice as large as the

destroyer, he could barely contain his excitement. Viewports wrapped

around the bridge, the synthoglass so clear it seemed that nothing stood

between people and the vacuum. Dozens of officers and noncoms sat

murmuring at dozens of consoles. Instrument panels at the radar,

navigation, communications, tactical, and flight deck stations radiated a

calming glow. Six holographic projectors shaped like inverted domes hung

from the overhead, and one of them at the tactical radar board to Blair's

left displayed a real-time, grid-enhanced image of six Hornets launching

for patrol to replace the Rapiers now returning.

Captain Jay Sansky stood below the hologram, conferring with a radar

officer and pointing to coordinates marking the fighter patrol's flight. The

stress of command had robbed Sansky of his hair and the rest of his youth.

Pride obviously stood between him and the partial recovery of that loss

through surgery. Appearances aside, the way he talked with the radar

officer suggested an avuncular quality, a benevolence that the XO,

Commander Gerald, sorely lacked.

With few words, Gerald had escorted Blair and Marshall to the bridge.

Yes, the commander had identified himself, but Blair didn't even know

Gerald's first name, and the man obviously preferred it that way. He had

looked annoyed over having to meet them on the flight deck. XOs typically

didn't greet new pilots or give them the welcome-aboard orientation tour.

That was the wing commander's job. But according to Gerald, Captain

Taggart had called ahead, unbeknownst to Blair and Marshall, to make

sure that the XO served as escort. In an attempt to quell Gerald's temper,

Blair had explained the importance of the minidisc he now carried. Gerald

had seemed unimpressed. And he had even forced Marshall to wait in the

corridor, since Marshall had "no business on the bridge."

Not waiting for the commander to do an uninspired job of introducing

him, Blair crossed to Captain Sansky, stood at attention, and gave a crisp

salute that the captain returned. "First Lieutenant Christopher Blair

reporting for duty, sir."

"At ease, Lieutenant." Sansky scrutinized Blair for a moment, then said,

"I understand you have something for me."

"Yes, sir." He withdrew the minidisc from an inner breast pocket and

handed it to Sansky. "An encrypted communique—from Admiral Tolwyn."

Sansky scratched his forehead and stared nonplused at the disc. "Why

didn't the admiral send a drone from Pegasus?"

Blair's tone grew somber. "Sir. Pegasus was destroyed by a Kilrathi

battle group seventeen hours ago. I'm sorry, sir."

The captain looked gravely at Gerald, then crossed toward a wall of

consoles, holding up the disc and shouting, "Communications. I want this

decrypted ASAP."

"Aye-aye, sir," a young comm officer said, pivoting in his chair to

accept the disc.

"If there's nothing else, sir?" Blair asked as Sansky returned.

"We don't kill the messenger anymore, Lieutenant. Instead, I'll just say

welcome aboard. And dismissed."

Drawing up his shoulders, Blair saluted and turned to go.

"Hey, Lieutenant," Gerald called. "You wouldn't be related to Arnold

Blair, would you?"

Steeling himself, Blair looked back and answered, "He was my father,

sir."

Gerald nodded, his lips rising in a self-satisfied grin that suddenly

evaporated. "He married a Pilgrim woman, didn't he?"

"You don't have to answer that," Captain Sansky said.

After a moment's hesitation, Blair finally confirmed, "Yes, sir. My

father married a Pilgrim, sir."

"Mixed marriages seldom work out." The commander shifted in front

of Blair, his face a cold, dark knot. "Pilgrims don't think like us."

Blair returned the icy look. "You won't have to worry, sir. They're both

dead."

Sansky placed a hand on the commander's shoulder. "I'm sure the

lieutenant's heredity will have no bearing on his performance, Mr.

Gerald."

"No, sir. I'm sure it won't."

"That's all, Lieutenant," Sansky said, obviously growing weary of his

refereeing. "I suggest you stow your gear and take the virtual tour. Your

onboard accounts have already been set up. You'll find hard copies of

everything in the personnel department."

Blair nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Captain Sansky watched his new pilot exit, growing more and more

troubled over Gerald's reaction to the boy. "You don't trust him?"

Instead of answering, Gerald turned to the tactical computer console.

"Computer. What are the odds that a Kilrathi battle group could infiltrate

Confederation space undetected and destroy Pegasus Station?"

"Calculating," the computer responded. "One chance in

one-point-twenty-one million. To the tenth power."

Gerald's eyes grew wide as he lifted his gaze from the terminal. "Trust

him, Captain? No, sir. I do not."

* * *

In the corridor outside, Blair stormed silently past Marshall, damning

to hell both the recent and distant past. He suddenly felt trapped in who

he was, cheated out of a fair life. All of the hard work, the training, the

studying, the suffering—all of it—for nothing. I'm a Pilgrim half-breed.

That's all I am. None of you can see past that, you bastards.

"Hey, hey, hey," Marshall said. He ran up behind Blair and yanked him

around. "What? Are you having a moment?"

Blair mouthed a curse, stared teary-eyed at the deck, then said, "It

never changes."

"Look. I overheard a little of that. So Gerald's another hardass XO, so

what. Let it go. Because right now, we're about to meet our fellow pilots.

The men and women we're going to fight with, perhaps even die with, and

perhaps"

"Don't worry, Marshall. I won't let the fact that I'm pissed keep you

from getting laid."

"Me? I'm worried about it keeping you from getting laid. You watch the

old Marshall man in action. I'll teach you how to make friends." Marshall

threw his arm over Blair's shoulder and led him down the corridor.

By the time they reached the pilots' mess, Blair's rage had cooled to a

simmer. Marshall pushed open the hatch, and Blair followed him inside.

Considering the large number of pilots stationed aboard the Tiger Claw,

Blair had assumed that the mess would be spacious, well-equipped,

and at least somewhat orderly. But Captain Sansky obviously kept a long

leash on his fighter jocks, perhaps in compensation for the dingy,

cramped, and stale-smelling mess assigned to them.

Uncomfortable-looking gray metal chairs lay scattered around chipped

tables whose legs bore the tape of numerous makeshift repair jobs. Fading

pinups of men and woman hung from every wall, flapping in the breeze of

the air recyclers. A Confederation Navy recruiting poster had been affixed

to the rear hatch and depicted a cruiser with a jump point exit beaming

behind it. Beneath the ship stood a challenge in bold letters: THE NAVY

WAY. IS THERE ANY OTHER? Someone had taken the challenge and had

written a number of answers in indelible black marker that included

combinations of epithets even Blair had never seen nor heard.

Two pilots played chess on a scratched-up old board. One of them, a

tall, sturdy man with a high-and-tight crew cut and Roman nose, smiled

to make the long scar on his face twist a little. He took the other pilot's

pawn and laughed. "You're going down, Forbes."

"Mr. Polanski. It's good to know you still dream." Forbes, a beautiful,

dark-skinned woman who had cut her hair short and dyed it blonde,

stared determinedly at the board for a moment, then quickly made a

move, took Polanski's bishop, and grinned. Something about her smile

bothered Blair, as though the gloss on her lips were a poison only he could

recognize.

The chess players noticed their entrance, as did the half-dozen other

pilots seated at tables, eating and sipping drinks. Blair gave a quick nod

hello.

But Marshall marched into the room with the joviality of a grand

marshal at a Confederation victory parade. "Hey! How's everybody doing?

Lieutenant Todd Marshall."

Silence. Dead silence. Blair swore he could hear molecules bumping

against each other. He scanned the blank faces of the pilots and felt his

breath shorten. A few returned to their conversations.

Undaunted by his audience's initial reaction, Marshall continued, "I'd

like you all to meet a close personal friend, Lieutenant Christopher

Blair—who just happens to be the second-best pilot on this hunk of junk."

Several of the pilots now looked up. One with reddish-brown hair and

long sideburns that defied regulations removed the cigar stub from his

mouth and spoke in an Australian accent. "Who you calling the best,

nugget?"

Blair leaned toward Marshall. "So this is the secret to your

overwhelming popularity?"

Still not fazed, Marshall took a step toward the cigar-wielding pilot,

who quickly stood. "There's two ways to figure out who's the best," he said

as he read the pilot's nametag. "One way, Captain St. John, involves you

trying to kick the shit out of me—"

St. John frowned, having no idea what to make of Marshall. Blair knew

the feeling all too well.

"What's the other way?" St. John asked.

Marshall smiled—a very dangerous look now. "The other way? Why,

that involves my other close personal friend. Mr. Johnnie Walker Black."

After quickly unzipping a pouch on his duffel, Marshall produced a bottle

of Scotch, very good Scotch, the rare, real stuff. Now Marshall

commanded the room.

Turning toward Forbes, St. John spoke her name as a question, as

though she were the group's unofficial leader.

Keeping her gaze trained on the bottle, Forbes said, "We're on

stand-down. One won't hurt."

Marshall moved quickly to a shelf, fetched a plastic glass, and poured

one for Forbes. "This might even help."

The other pilots flocked around Marshall, who looked at Blair with an

I-told-you-so expression plastered on his face.

Forbes tanked down her drink, exhaled loudly as the burn set in, then

faced Marshall. "You got balls."

"You should see them."

"Mine are bigger," she said.

"I've been told that size doesn't matter."

"She lied." The other pilots chuckled loudly. Forbes eyed St. John and

addressed him by his call sign. "Personally, Hunter, I'd have taken the

third option: kick his ass first, then drink his Scotch."

That drew more laughter. For the moment, Blair felt accepted.

* * *

Standing in the chart room with the hatch sealed, Captain Sansky and

Commander Gerald waited as the computer booted up and prepared to

play the decoded message delivered by Lieutenant Blair. Sansky had

already guessed what Admiral Tolwyn would ask of him, and he knew that

he could not disobey orders at this juncture. He had, on more than one

occasion, disagreed with the admiral, but too much was at stake now.

Responsibility would rest upon the admiral's shoulders, and it felt

liberating to be someone else's instrument.

Finally, the monitor showed Admiral Tolwyn standing on the

Concordia's bridge. "Jay, I'll be brief. The Kilrathi took Pegasus. They

have her NAVCOM AI. By the time this communication reaches you, they

will be approximately thirty-five hours from the Charybdis jump point

and Earth. Confed capital ships are headed home now. The Concordia

battle group will be there in approximately thirty-seven hours. I'm

ordering the Tiger Claw to the Charybdis Quasar. You are to use any

means necessary to gather information as to the Kilrathi whereabouts,

capacity, and plan of attack. I need intelligence, old friend. Use Taggart.

He knows Vega sector better than any man alive. He can get you to

Charybdis quickly. Good luck. Tolwyn out."

Sansky looked to his second-in-command. Gerald had begun shaking

his head halfway through the message. He caught Sansky's gaze and said,

"I don't like it."

"No one asked for your opinion, Paul."

"Sir. The disc came to us on the Diligent, entrusted to a Pilgrim

half-breed."

"I'm aware of how easy it is to fake communiques, Commander. But if

it's real and we ignore it, then we seal Earth's fate. Is that how you'd like to

be remembered?"

"No, sir. But you're putting trust where it doesn't belong."

"Your reservations have been duly noted. Now then. Send for Taggart."

Gerald bit back a response and quickly exited.

Turning to the monitor, Sansky thumbed on the replay, switched off the

volume, and stared at Geoffrey Tolwyn's face. "Oh God, Geoff. You've

always known the right thing to do. I've always trusted you, and you me.

It's been a long haul. A very long haul. I wish all of this could be easier. But

it never is, is it? Good luck to you, old friend."