Airshow
By Bellantara
C&Cs can be sent to Bellantara
via her fanfiction.net account - here.
via her fanfiction.net account - here.
Disclaimers: Voltron and all associated characters are owned and copyrighted by WEP. Original/new characters belong to the author.
Rating: PG-13 - Language
Originally published on FF.net - 11/20/2013
Rating: PG-13 - Language
Originally published on FF.net - 11/20/2013
I hate atmospheric flying. The bird feels sluggish as hell, even though I know she handles much the same as she does in free space. The g-forces hurt like almighty fuck, and I'll feel them the rest of the weekend. But...we can't do what we do with inertials engaged, so we deal with the hurt. And don't bitch out loud. Because when we hit the zone, it's more fun than making out with De'Andrys Guillaume. And trust me, every man should experience that at least once. Holy Hells.
The go signal comes over my com; just to my left, Keith blasts down the runway, screaming into the sky at max takeoff speed. A five-count later, Sven and I follow him, with Jeff and Cliff another five-count behind us. And on the ground, though I can't hear him, I know Shannon O'Connell is introducing us to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlebeings! Galaxy Garrison Academy proudly presents the Silver Falcons! Cadet Lieutenants Lance McClain, Sven Holgersson, Jeff Dukane, and Cliff Sheffield, commanded by Cadet Captain Keith Kogane! Let's hear it for them!"
Deep breaths, forcing oxygen into my lungs as Keith peels away from us, and we take our first formation. Loose diamond, me and Sven on the points, Jeff and Cliff to the sides. Wingtip tight, spiraling towards the ground at suicidal speeds, separating as we dive, pulling up at the last minute as Keith screams through the center of the formation. Another breath, and I follow Sven to one end of the runway, Jeff and Cliff circle and head for the other. No room for error on this stunt; flip over on top of Sven, so close I can read his nametag, then shoot down the runway, passing within a hair of Jeff and Cliff doing the same stunt.
Pretty smoke time, diamond formation with the others, lazy climb, then pass in front of the crowd, sharp 90 degree bank to flash them the Garrison insignia on our wings. I've read the arguments the damned politicians make, that the Falcons are an impractical and unnecessary drain on much needed war resources. Ironically, they make these arguments from posh offices paid for by tax dollars, that they were delivered to by drivers paid with more tax dollars. Sure, I can't shoot down Drules with this, but...the tricks and stunts we do here will save our butts in combat later. Plus, I'd bet a year's pay that there's at least a dozen starry-eyed kids in that audience who've just decided they want the Academy, and half of them will actually follow through. So...we aren't practical, but we're useful. Politicians can go fuck themselves.
Finale time. Tighten muscles, forcing a hard breath as I race for the stars, training overriding the instinct to pass out. Faster and faster, weaving around the others, then at 4,000 meters, stall the engines, arcing over and down into a spiral, using every ounce of skill I have to make the controlled look like an unstoppable death dive. I can almost hear the screams of the horrified spectators, sure I'm about to splat all over the runway. Too bad Keith won't let me milk that for...sympathy, later from the giggly girls that are always mooning over us dashing, charming pilots. No joy in life, that one. At 2K I bring the engines back online, brace, force another hard breath...and at 1500, I yank the bird into a swooping, shrieking climb, merging into the formation the others are holding above me. Then a flyby of the stands, with Shannon surely asking the crowd to give us a hand, and it's over.
And I mean really over. Graduation's in three days; Jeff and Cliff leave for their posting on the Explorer the day after that, then me, Keith, Sven...we're off to some place in the back of beyond called Arus. Took Sven twenty minutes to find it on a chart, and he's the best navigator the Academy's ever produced. But all that's later. Right now, time to turn the birds in, be put on display for the political suckups, then finally, finally, go soak our aches and pains away. Next time we fly will be very different, but no less fun.
The go signal comes over my com; just to my left, Keith blasts down the runway, screaming into the sky at max takeoff speed. A five-count later, Sven and I follow him, with Jeff and Cliff another five-count behind us. And on the ground, though I can't hear him, I know Shannon O'Connell is introducing us to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlebeings! Galaxy Garrison Academy proudly presents the Silver Falcons! Cadet Lieutenants Lance McClain, Sven Holgersson, Jeff Dukane, and Cliff Sheffield, commanded by Cadet Captain Keith Kogane! Let's hear it for them!"
Deep breaths, forcing oxygen into my lungs as Keith peels away from us, and we take our first formation. Loose diamond, me and Sven on the points, Jeff and Cliff to the sides. Wingtip tight, spiraling towards the ground at suicidal speeds, separating as we dive, pulling up at the last minute as Keith screams through the center of the formation. Another breath, and I follow Sven to one end of the runway, Jeff and Cliff circle and head for the other. No room for error on this stunt; flip over on top of Sven, so close I can read his nametag, then shoot down the runway, passing within a hair of Jeff and Cliff doing the same stunt.
Pretty smoke time, diamond formation with the others, lazy climb, then pass in front of the crowd, sharp 90 degree bank to flash them the Garrison insignia on our wings. I've read the arguments the damned politicians make, that the Falcons are an impractical and unnecessary drain on much needed war resources. Ironically, they make these arguments from posh offices paid for by tax dollars, that they were delivered to by drivers paid with more tax dollars. Sure, I can't shoot down Drules with this, but...the tricks and stunts we do here will save our butts in combat later. Plus, I'd bet a year's pay that there's at least a dozen starry-eyed kids in that audience who've just decided they want the Academy, and half of them will actually follow through. So...we aren't practical, but we're useful. Politicians can go fuck themselves.
Finale time. Tighten muscles, forcing a hard breath as I race for the stars, training overriding the instinct to pass out. Faster and faster, weaving around the others, then at 4,000 meters, stall the engines, arcing over and down into a spiral, using every ounce of skill I have to make the controlled look like an unstoppable death dive. I can almost hear the screams of the horrified spectators, sure I'm about to splat all over the runway. Too bad Keith won't let me milk that for...sympathy, later from the giggly girls that are always mooning over us dashing, charming pilots. No joy in life, that one. At 2K I bring the engines back online, brace, force another hard breath...and at 1500, I yank the bird into a swooping, shrieking climb, merging into the formation the others are holding above me. Then a flyby of the stands, with Shannon surely asking the crowd to give us a hand, and it's over.
And I mean really over. Graduation's in three days; Jeff and Cliff leave for their posting on the Explorer the day after that, then me, Keith, Sven...we're off to some place in the back of beyond called Arus. Took Sven twenty minutes to find it on a chart, and he's the best navigator the Academy's ever produced. But all that's later. Right now, time to turn the birds in, be put on display for the political suckups, then finally, finally, go soak our aches and pains away. Next time we fly will be very different, but no less fun.
Airshow
by Bellantara
More of Bellantara's fics can be found in the Guest Authors section,
and on fanfiction.net - here.
by Bellantara
More of Bellantara's fics can be found in the Guest Authors section,
and on fanfiction.net - here.
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