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Post by tara on Feb 2, 2007 17:26:59 GMT -6
Old and tired were the first words that came to Shannons mind when she saw the Viper that had her name on it. It was beaten, dented, patched, and definately abused. The landing struts leaked hydralic fluid, the engines were housed behind ill fitting cowlings, and the intakes looked to be the wrong model type for the engines. She looked at the insturmant panel and saw that several of the gauges had cracked glass on their covers, and some were missing entirely. The canopy was scratched and there were dents on the bird cage struts. Of more concern was the mismatched guns. One was the M-704D which had excellent power and short range. The other was the M-11P which was a short to medium range gun, but lacked punch and was commonly known to be unreliable. She felt some sense of anger that it was even in service. Along the bottom of the Viper she saw the marks where bombs and missiles could be attached on hard points, which was one of the many reasons the Colonial forces chose the Viper over other models. This poor birds hard points were welded over in some cases and in others were bent to such a degree that she doubted that any ordinance pylon would function properly if attached. In summary, it was a horribly treated bird, that had probably out lived its life span yarens ago, but here it was, sitting in the ready bay, leaking oil all over, and looking as horrible as it smelt. She loved it! It was definately the best bird in the fleet, and together, they would destroy the entire Cylon empire, one raider at a time!
<Note: Added chapter designation--Lucian>
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Post by tara on Feb 3, 2007 18:30:55 GMT -6
Inside the cockpit, the leather of the seat was cracked and the padding was so used it had flattened out yarens ago. She pushed her finger into the sparce padding and felt the seat metal immediately. She decided that wearing her zero atmosphere suit over her uniform during flight might solve that problem. It was a bit bulky, but it did provide some marginal padding. Along the sides the paint had been worn away from the rub of arms and who knows what, till the metal underneath became shiny. It was almost mirror like at this point. She sat down in the seat and adjusted the seat all the way forward. Her legs still didnt quite reach the pedals far enough so she reached down and adjusted them back two holes. While under the scratched up insturment panel, she noticed a wierd blinking light. She leaned in farther, tracing its wires back to the flight computer. They were spliced in with alligator clips, so she was sure it probably was not intended to be permanent. Without thinking, she unclipped the device and tossed it out of the cockpit. The light stopped blinking and she shrugged and forgot about it. On the bottom of the cockpit there was a fine layer of strange material. It was probably a mixture of blood and vomit and maybe even feces, dried and now hardened to an almost paint like covering. She wondered how many pilots had lost their lives in this bird. Well thats what they were supposed to do, fight and die for the fleet. Shannon sat back up, looking out through the canopy. It was so scratched and chipped that it was blurry in places and nearly impossible to see through in others, but the cross hairs in the middle were clear and polished. Well, at least the former owner had their priorities in order.
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Post by tara on Feb 5, 2007 11:13:17 GMT -6
Shannon stood up and turned to climb out onto the wing structure. She was much lighter than most of the people on Callisto, so she could climb places they would not. She put a foot on the engine intake, just behind where it was partially painted "No Step" and boosted herself up onto the intake of the apex engine. Taking careful steps, she got back to the tail fin and tugged it in a few different directions, to test its structural soundness. It seemed ok, but she could tell it was not exactly straight. But then, not many of the birds on Callisto were unbent. She carefull stepped down onto the side of the lower right engine and made her way to the back of the engines, inspecting the turbo cones. They were worn, and she could see visible battle damage on the apex and left side cones. That caused her some concern. She didnt mind cosmetic damage, that was inevitable for a Viper in combat, but this could impair the performance of her bird. She herself was already a critical impairment to the flight charicteristics of the Viper, being new and untested. She didnt need mechanical failure to add to the equasion. She made a mental note to mention that to a tech, if there were any around. It seemed strange to have such an empty flight bay for a ship that runs combat patrols around the clock, but if the techs here really were finished with their work, then so be it. She was led to believe that turning these birds around for more use was a 24/7 thing. Shannon giggled at the saying, wondering what the 7 stood for. She understood that the ship ran on three 8 hour shifts, but she didnt understand the 7 part. Putting a foot on the lower right cone, she lowered herself down to crawl into the apex engine, boosting herself so that only her hips and legs remained outside the cone. She wanted to inspect the inside of the massive engine, making sure it wasnt worn or damaged in any way. These engines were the heart and soul of her Viper. They powered the guns, provided the speed with which to intercept the Raiders, and provided the life support for the fragile human cargo. It all started and ended with the engines. That was something her daddy's tech friends used to remind her of constantly as she studied to be a Viper pilot. Inside the apex engine she found a tiny pin hole in one of the fuel mixture fan blades and marked it with a red marker. This was definately something that she would not tollerate. Climbing down from the engine, she checked the lower engines and found them to be in good shape. As soon as she found her ground crew, there was going to be an ass chewing. This relationship was not going to start out on a good note, but it was damn well going to be an effective team. She was highly demanding of her Viper and her team, but she was fair, and willing to help. The fact she was checking over the bird in her off time was proof. But she sure as frack wasnt going to have her ground crew sleeping, or drinking the night away when her bird was NOT battle ready at a moments notice. No, this simply was NOT going to do...
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Post by tara on Feb 5, 2007 19:57:04 GMT -6
Arriving back at the hanger deck, Shannon immediately rolled a tool cart over to her Viper and began to read a manual of how to dissassemble a Vipers engines from its fuselage. It had been performed in the field by other pilots under combat conditions, so it couldnt be THAT hard...
She propped the book up on top of the tool cart and began searching for the right spanner to open the "aft intake access panel cover." Ok, that should be easy enough, and once thats done, it will just be a matter of time and effort.
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Post by tara on Feb 8, 2007 10:09:16 GMT -6
"Frack, I cant do this, I dont understand most of these words." Shannon grumbled. She put the panel back on and rolled the tool cart away. This was work best done by professionals. If the aircraft was on the flight line, as a ready 5 craft, and was waiting for launch, it would still be attached to the ships fuel lines, since they wouldnt want a half empty ready craft. If the pilot had hit the Turbo to launch, that engine would have exploded, destroying the craft, killing the pilot, and probably damaging the launch tube, possibly destroying it. There was a fair chance that the tubes next to it on both sdes would also be damaged, but definately not useable till the fre was out. And if the fire spread down the ships fuel line... well, that would be the end of them all. She took that very seriously. The device concerned her as well, it didnt seem to have any function, but it would have intercepted the signal from core command, which would be given just before launch. If it was some device meant to do damage, that would be very bad. If not, well, as the ships pilot, she was supposed to know what was aboard her craft at all times, and this, was definately NOT standard colonial equipment.
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Post by tara on Feb 8, 2007 14:54:02 GMT -6
Taking her marker out, Shannon wrote in big bold letters all over the canopy glass "DO NOT START ENGINES! DANGER!" She stood back, feeling somewhat proud that she had found a potential disaster and averted it from happening.
Feeling the fatigue from her very long and hard day, she turned and went to the pilots quarters.
Inside the pilots quarters, she found her bunk, still neatly made from when she was shown her assigned bunk. She undressed, to just her under shirt and undies, and slipped into bed, leaving the light above her on. She hated the dark, it scared her more than she let on. Her holster was hanging on the side of her bed, but the blaster itself was under her pillow, against her hand. It probably wasnt uncommon for a Warrior to sleep with their pistol undr their pillow, but Shannon had developed, after much work and training, to half-sleep, drifting in and out often, never fully in a deep sleep. She was alerted to the noises around her, like an animal in dangerous territory. She slept "with one eye open". Her generation had learned that they were never safe. Cylons could come at any hour, find them any place. Kill them with no warning. Civillians died in their beds from Cylon missiles and gun blasts on their transports. Death was a constant companion. Fear replaced hope as their primary emotion. Like Pavlov's dog, the children of man had learned to exist as animals being hunted. They were more savage than their parents, quick to fight, willing to kill without much provocation. Life was cheap, meaningless. They trusted only the weapons they weilded, respected only those who could kill them. The war child lived in a constant state of alert. To relax was to be taken by supprise and killed. Fun was a useless excercise. The skills of killing and war were their legacies. They survived by becomming more like their enemies. The humanity in them was being washed away, replaced by the hatred for their enemies. They were flesh and blood machines, born to kill, bred for war, and comfortable only in combat. The dogs of war were finally of age. The story of humanity was about to become far more bloody that it ever imagined.
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