Wing Commander in Real Time - Day 2 - 1130 Zulu

Script

46F OUT THE WINDOW

Into the void -- suddenly two patrolling Rapiers streak

by in the distance. They're framed by a brilliant,

swirling Quasar.

SC 47-65 OMIT

66 INT. RAPIER COCKPIT - FORBES

FORBES

(over radio)

Don't take it personally, nugget --

it's a question of estrogen. Women can

outfly and outshoot men -- we do better

at multitasking, we can keep track of

four enemy fighters.

67 INT. RAPIER COCKPIT - MANIAC

MANIAC

Hey, it takes balls, not ovaries to

handle four enemy fighters: nothing

personal.

(a beat)

Watch this.

(to Flight Boss)

This is Delta Two. Permission to land?

FLIGHT BOSS (O.S.)

(over radio)

Delta Two, you are cleared to land.

68 EXT. TIGER CLAW

Maniac fires the afterburners on his Rapier, banks hard.

Pulls into line with the opening flight deck doors.

FORBES

Ooo! That must have been at least three

g's...

Then Maniac rolls his craft UPSIDE DOWN and guns the

throttle...

MANIAC

Try this...

69 INT. TIGER CLAW - FLIGHT DECK

FLIGHT BOSS

Delta Two, you're coming in too hot.

Abort. I repeat, abort!...Delta Two?

Do you copy? Shit!

70 INT. TIGER CLAW - FLIGHT DECK

An alarm barks out. Yellow clad deck personnel scramble

to get out of the way of the oncoming Rapier. Which is

still upside down.

FLIGHT BOSS

Delta Two. YOU ARE INVERTED!

As Maniac's ship rockets through the hanger bay doors

71 INT. RAPIER COCKPIT - MANIAC

MANIAC jerks his flight stick hard right.

72 INT. TIGER CLAW - FLIGHT DECK

And the Rapier flips over and touches down!

MANIAC

Not any more.

The Rapier fires it's reverse thrusters and brakes. The

Rapier pulls to a halt just feet in front of a fuel truck

and DECKMASTER PETERSON who was desperately trying to get

the truck's driver to get his vehicle out of the Rapier's

path.

FLIGHT BOSS

I'm going to have your wings,

Lieutenant! Just wait until your wing

leader... DELTA ONE!

And Forbes' Rapier is coming in UPSIDE DOWN TOO!

FORBES

(to Maniac)

Now what were you saying?

Forbes' Rapier does a 340 DEGREE ROLL, righting itself at

the last possible moment and touching down.

FORBES (CONT'D)

Now, that's how you do it!

Maniac is already out of his cockpit. He walks up to

Forbes' ship. The Deck crew keeps their distance --

still traumatized by Maniac's and Forbes' antics.

Forbes' cockpit pops open -- she's got a huge grin on her

face.

MANIAC

You did that to impress me.

FORBES

Just trying to re-direct some of that

testosterone.

They look at each other, sharing the adrenaline buzz.

FORBES (Cont'd)

You're a total Maniac!

MANIAC

"Maniac" Marshall at your service,

ma'am

And Maniac has a new callsign. They start giggling like a

couple of high school kids who just played a game of

chicken. Then...

FORBES

Oh shit.

She's looking past Maniac at DEVERAUX who stands on the

flight deck, rigid and fuming.

SC. 73 OMIT

Storyboards

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

Novelization

CHAPTER 10

UNITED CONFEDERATION CARRIER TIGER CLAW

MARCH 16, 2654 1130 HOURS ZULU TIME

VEGA SECTOR

ETA TO CLASS 2 PULSAR THREE HOURS

"See, when I'm not flying I'm like a pit bull pulling on his leash. You

know he's going to break the leash any second, but you don't dare reach

down to set him free—unless you're in the mood to sacrifice a few fingers.

And you go ahead and do your homework on pit bulls. They were

originally bred for dogfighting. Pun intended here, baby. Pun most

definitely intended." First Lieutenant Todd Marshall grinned so hard that

it hurt. Then he accelerated ahead of Lieutenant Forbes's Rapier, leaving

her in the maelstrom of his wash.

Dialing up the rear turret view, Marshall watched as Forbes expertly

recovered, kicked in her afterburners, and burst toward him like a rabid

hawk. "This is a security patrol, nugget," she said sternly. "Unauthorized

maneuvers will not be tolerated. You'd better get with—or out of—the

program." Her Rapier settled in beside his, and he looked over, but too

many dazzles of reflected light from the carrier obscured her canopy.

"Unauthorized maneuvers?" Marshall cried. "What the hell does that

mean?"

"I don't know," she said, then rocketed ahead of him. As her thruster

wash enveloped his fighter, the stick whipped out of his hand, triggering a

beeping alarm and automated mes-sage: "Pilot control lost. Do you want

to engage autopilot? If you do not respond in five seconds, autopilot will

automatically engage. Five, four—"

Seizing the stick and cutting off the countdown, Marshall cursed,

throttled up, and went hunting. He streaked after Forbes for thirty

seconds, then got creative. He yanked the stick toward his chest, going

ballistic for a handful of seconds before leveling off. Forbes now lay ahead,

at his twelve o'clock low and in his cone of fire. He swooped down toward

her, one eye shielded by the Heads Up Display viewer attached to his

helmet. The smart targeting reticle superimposed on the HUD floated just

ahead of her Rapier, a tiny green circle that said, "Shoot here, dummy."

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Forbes screamed. "You got

missile lock on me?"

"I got you locked up so tight, Lieutenant, it's a miracle you can still

breathe."

"Break off!"

"Can't help you there, Ace." He leaned a little more on the throttle and

considered her next move.

She could perform a burnout, hitting afterburners and leaping so far

ahead of him that she could pull a tight one-eighty to open up on him.

Or she could go for a fishhook: Make a ninety-degree right turn, then

follow up immediately with a one-eighty that would put her on a

starboard intercept course.

If she felt uninspired, she'd go for the old hard brake, in an attempt to

make him overshoot her. But Marshall had responded to that textbook

trick too many times. Once he overshot her, he would stall the thrusters

and use retros to make the tightest one-eighty she would ever witness.

While inverted, he'd lock on her nose. Ciao, baby.

She probably wouldn't attempt a kickstop or a turn 'n' spin, knowing all

too well that making a simple ninety-degree turn would not cause him to

fly by her, whether she killed her engines or not. Likewise for the shake,

rattle, and roll. No combination of slaloming would lose him now.

"What are you going to do, Forbes? Tick. Tick. Tick. Doncha hear the

ticking?"

Her answer came with a burst of afterburners. She tipped her nose up

until inverted, then flew straight at him as his proximity alarm wailed.

Marshall had all of two seconds to comprehend the game of chicken.

Even as he shifted the stick to dive, their canopies came within a few

centimeters. A howl rose from his throat as her tail wings grazed his

fuselage with a horrible screech, then—

The fighters cleared each other. He held course, panting into his O2

mask, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"Are we ready to hit the first nav point?" Forbes asked. "Or do you still

want to play?"

"You're the female version of me," Marshall said, dumbfounded.

"Correction, stud. You're the male version of me. With a lot of practice,

you may one day fly in my shadow."

Marshall's left VDU switched to Commander Gerald's grim mug.

"Lieutenant Marshall. We've been unable to contact Lieutenant Forbes.

What's going on out there?"

"Stand by, sir." Marshall dialed up Forbes on a secure channel. "Hey,

Lieutenant. Gerald's flipping out."

"I know. Flight control's been hailing me, but I've blocked their signal.

They probably handed the problem to Gerald. I'll take care of this."

"Roger." He toggled back to Gerald's channel. "She's replying now, sir."

Then Marshall listened in as Forbes lied about communication and

maneuvering problems and that both had now been solved. "En route to

first nav point, sir."

Five thousand kilometers ahead sat an indistinct pocket of space

designated as nav point one, the first of three stops on their grand security

tour of nothingness. Marshall activated navigation mode and glanced at

the white cross-hairs on his radar scope and HUD. He adjusted course

until the cross-hairs each floated in their centers. The rest of the radar

display had been divided by quadrants and would flash in the appropriate

quadrant when he took a missile or laser hit, not that he had seen that

flash very often.

Sometimes he wished the Rapier's controls were more sophisticated,

more challenging. The Rapier was, after all, a very real fighter, not some

funzone simulator used to zap computer-generated targets. Yet her

controls were just as simple to operate. Then again, that simplicity gave

him a hell of a lot more time to concentrate on whacking Kilrathi.

"Delta Two? I'm lined up," Forbes reported.

"Roger. Good light over here," he said, glancing at the autopilot display,

the AUTO button now illuminated.

"Engage autopilot on my mark. Mark."

Marshall tapped the key and felt the familiar and humbling force of the

Rapier's twin thrusters as they propelled him toward the point. He yawned

into his headset, not realizing how loud he'd been.

Forbes appeared in his left VDU. "I guess it's the same with all you

men," she said. "Give you just a little bit of action, and you're spent.

Completely spent."

"Blame it on the Scotch."

"You can't keep up with me. Scotch or otherwise."

Before he could offer his own cutting rejoinder, the Rapier abruptly

decreased velocity. The nav point lay just a klick ahead. He checked the

radar. A single blue blip that represented Forbes's Rapier stood off to port,

otherwise the zone remained clear. "Looks like we got zip here, Lieutenant.

How boring is this?"

"Sometimes boring is good," she said. "Especially when your wingman's

green."

"Or a woman."

"Whoa, you are going to pay for that."

"My credit's good."

"You know, when I joined up, they told me I'd come across some male

chauvinism. I couldn't believe it. I was like, what century are we living in?

Female pilots have been flying combat missions for over six hundred

years."

"And we men have been harassing you for just as long. It ain't going to

change, Forbes. So long as there's a difference."

"You mean as long as assholes like you keep flying."

"Look. I didn't mean what I said. I mean the woman part. I mean, yeah,

you're a woman. You really are. But you know what I mean. I just said

that to rattle you."

"Maybe you're right. You're not a chauvinist. You're just prejudiced

against all other pilots because you see them as competitors."

"They're not my competitors. They're my fans."

"Oh, God. Get me to the next nav point before I barf."

"I'm good to go," he said, waving.

She switched off the video. "Autopilot. Mark."

Nav point two, a sprawling vista of outer-space real estate that yielded

lovely views of more nothingness, came and went without enemy contact,

as did nav point three. With the sweep completed, they started back for

the carrier, passing the next security patrol pilots as they took their

Rapiers out to new nav points and new heights of boredom.

Once the autopilot had disengaged at 2,200 kilometers out from the

Claw, Forbes queried the ship and requested clearance to land. They were

put on standby. Marshall's eyelids grew heavy, and he longed for a shower,

for his cot.

"Hey, Marshall. I've been thinking a lot about this male-female thing.

Don't take it personally. It's just a question of estrogen. Women can outfly

and outshoot men. We don't manhandle our instruments, and we do

better at multitasking. We can keep track of four enemy fighters."

Marshall snapped from his doze. "Hey, it takes balls not ovaries—to

handle four enemy fighters. Nothing personal." He glanced at the opening

flight deck doors. "Watch this." Toggling to the flight boss's channel, he

said, "This is Delta Two. Permission to land?"

The flight boss's beefy face clicked on the VDU. "Delta Two. You are

cleared to land."

Tensing every muscle in his body, Marshall fired the afterburners and

banked hard, lining up with the flight deck.

"Whoa, that must've been three Gs," Forbes said sarcastically.

Taking his cue, Marshall cut the stick hard left and rolled as he gunned

the throttle. "Try this." Inverted, he raced down toward the runway.

"Delta Two. You're coming in too hot," the flight boss cried, his face a

survey course in fear. "Abort. I repeat. Abort. Delta Two. Do you copy?

Shit!"

But Marshall held course, gazing up at the runway, now his ceiling, as,

in the distance, orange-suited insects made way. He approached the

energy field between vacuum and atmosphere.

"Delta Two. YOU ARE INVERTED!"

"No. You are!" Marshall shouted back, then released a cackle. The

Rapier vibrated sharply as it penetrated the energy barrier and roared

into the hangar, a dampened echo in its wake.

"Dammit, man. You're inverted!"

"Not anymore," Marshall told the keen-eyed flight boss. He jammed the

stick left and rolled upright.

But he had misjudged his speed. Even as he fired retros, he knew he

would overshoot the runway by at least twenty, maybe thirty meters.

And worse, dead ahead lay a fuel truck, strategically placed by God to

punish one First Lieutenant Todd Marshall, the Confederation's

egomaniac par excellence.

The deckmaster, a man named Peterson with a tax auditor's sense of

humor, ran across the runway and toward the fuel truck. As he crossed in

front of the vehicle, headed toward the driver's side to holler at the

stunned driver, he froze, his arms extended across the truck's hood.

Marshall blasted toward him, retros wailing to the heavens, wings and

fuselage rattling so violently that he thought the fighter would simply

shatter across the deck before ever stopping.

Peterson's mouth opened as he resigned himself to his fate.

The Rapier slowed but kept moving.

Snap! Click! And Marshall got thrown forward, his harness digging into

his shoulders. The retros dropped from their soprano into a comforting,

easy baritone. The Rapier settled onto her landing skids to reveal

Peterson, still clutching the truck. The deckmaster reached out with a

shaky hand and touched the Rapier's nose cannon. "Ohmygod," he

mouthed.

Marshall slid aside his HUD viewer, then unlatched his helmet and O2

mask. Sweat drenched his face, and he had apparently sublet his throat to

a desert.

"I'll have your wings," the flight boss said, his eyes ablaze. "Wait until

your wing leader…"

"What?"

The flight boss regarded something off-camera, then shouted, "Delta

One!"

Marshall's VDU switched to an image of Forbes in her cockpit. "Now

what were you saying?"

He cocked his head to watch her sweep over the runway, her Rapier

inverted and at full throttle. She plowed through the energy field, killed

the engines, then ignited retros to roll a full 540 degrees, righting herself

at the last possible moment before touchdown. And she had not overshot

the runway.

"Now that's how you do it," she shouted.

Marshall rushed out of his cockpit and toward her fighter. The flight

crews kept their distance, not wanting to catch the rare strain of insanity

that had barnacled itself to his brain.

Forbes's canopy popped, and she removed her mask to flash him a

perfect grin.

"You did that to impress me," he said, leaving no room for the question.

"Just trying to redirect some of that testosterone."

He stared at her, and in her eyes he found something they now shared,

a sudden and very desirable intimacy that would last as long as they lived.

Military critics might call it the ill-founded camaraderie of adrenaline

junkies. Marshall just called it fun. And Forbes obviously felt the same.

"You're a total maniac!" she said.

He saluted her. "Maniac Marshall at your service, ma'am."

They burst into laughter.

Then Forbes stiffened as she looked past him. "Oh, shit."

Lieutenant Commander Deveraux stood fuming on the opposite side of

the flight deck, then spun and stomped out.

Deveraux's silence left Marshall even more worried. "What happens

now?"

Forbes looked to where Deveraux had been standing. "I'm not sure. I'm

really not sure."