Sect War

By Kerry Watkins

On a world where trees are hundreds of feet tall with leaves more than a dozen feet wide, the inhabitants are dwarfed by the underlying vegetation of the immense forest floor. The forces of good and evil pair off in small-scale battles to determine the destiny of a colony, whether they live free of tyranny or succumb to the will of a brutal oppressive regime. The difficult terrain made wheeled vehicles impractical and limited designs of military craft to those that closely resemble the only creatures capable of efficiently traversing the terrain--insects. All flying craft received the default name of sects and often incorporated design features too complex for most pilots to master. The first conflict using fragile unreliable sect craft ended in a bitter stalemate. It was more a pause in the fighting while both sides labored to reconstitute. Much has changed since then with technological advancements in flying craft design and complexity. The Feroci are in the preparatory stage of carrying out the final offensive to annihilate the last remaining colony of the descendants that left the Grand Hive generations ago to seek prosperity. The Feroci have developed secret advanced crafts and a cunning strategy. Weary of war, the last colony has become complacent in limiting engagements to small scrimmages and mostly defensive operations. The colony leadership suspects the Feroci are planning a major offensive but have no idea where or when. They began dispatching scouts to find clues, but colony pilots hesitate to fly close to the Feroci homeland for fear of encountering the enemy's leading ace in a craft called the Sect Slayer. A new sect crew chief encounters the enemy ace on his first combat mission and manages to survive after the pilot is incapacitated. In the process, he discovers love, a jealous new foe that wants to ruin his career, new allies, an old friend that wants to even the odds, and a determined enemy ace that wants to exact revenge against him and lead the Feroci forces to assured victory. So begins the Sect War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662421563

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Sect War

Kerry Watkins

Copyright © 2021 Kerry Watkins

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-6624-2155-6 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-2156-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Reassignment

Chapter 2

First Mission

Chapter 3

Encounter

Chapter 4

New Foe

Chapter 5

Alliances

Chapter 6

Retaliation

Chapter 7

Broken Wings

Chapter 8

Committed

Chapter 9

Discovery

Chapter 10

Wanted

Chapter 11

Last Mission

Chapter 12

Insertion

Chapter 13

Mettle Tested

Chapter 14

Resolution

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to my Daughter Ellie Watkins for her outstanding contributions and support

Thanks also to my dear friends that have been encouraging and supportive

Autumn Miner

Carilyn Berry

Mindi Murray

Al Meeks

Chapter 1

Reassignment

Sergeant Mix Brewster firmly clutched his soiled dark-green flight bag containing his aviator's helmet, flight gloves, daily rations, and a few maintenance items as he walked along the flight terrace at a brisk pace. He held the oil and grease seasoned bag low and steady to avoid disturbing the contents as he looked down the long winding row of gangly winged mechanical craft. To his left, the brush-entwined jagged walls of the adjoining surface ascended nearly vertical, and to his right, a continuous arresting cable supported by meter-high bobbed poles bordered the steep edge.

Brewster studied the arresting cable as he walked down the center of the terrace. The cable's function was to snare an untethered craft being blown over the edge by high winds or downwash. He doubted that the small diameter of the cable and low tensile strength could save even the smallest craft.

He slowed as he glanced at his watch. No! Brewster uttered aloud as he noticed the time and then hurried his pace. I hate being late. Bet they parked it all the way at the end!

The frustrated newcomer to the ground operations area surveyed the parked carriers for the numbers that he memorized only a few minutes earlier. Mix Brewster was now running toward the craft at the row's end, now seemingly unconcerned about the contents in his bag.

Nearly a dozen leveled rows, some partially segmented, were constructed around the stupendous base of the maintenance complex and flight operations center, separated by the ground operations area used to stage flyable craft. The extreme difficulty in leveling the jagged landscape and the small diminutive patches of suitable terrain made terracing a viable solution. Several inclined pathways nearly thirty meters wide connected the rows and served as hover taxi lanes for the sects, but they were primarily intended for the maintenance crawlers and pedestrian traffic. Large roots entangled with dense vegetation broke the surface of the surrounding terrain and towered over the ground operations area, restricting takeoffs and landings to the relatively unobstructed flight operations pads.

Sweat began to stream down his face, offering a brief redemptive cooling from the torrid morning breeze. Brewster noticed some of the craft mechanics were standing around in a small formation in a widened area of terrain while some others appeared to be involved in various maintenance tasks. He momentarily studied the gaggle, but he did not see anyone familiar among the flight crews or any of the other mechanics that were recently transferred to the lift sections.

Brewster continued to scan the flight crews as he trotted along the curving row; his curiosity had peaked. Where did they go? Most of the experienced maintenance mechanics were being moved to the lift section for flight duties. Some were destined to attend flight school, and a few had already gone. He ran by more than a dozen craft and did not recognize a familiar face. Almost there. About a dozen more carriers to pass and he would arrive at his destination—the antiquated four-winged Dragon carrier in which he would fly his first combat mission.

The new crew chief had grown up watching the carriers fly missions in and around the colony, but as the colonial forces became more successful, he saw less of them. Forward operating bases were eventually established between the colony and the enemy homeland, and sightings of military craft became increasingly rare.

Any craft with wings instantly caught his attention. The distinct sound of buzzing wings beckoned his eyes upward to search for the source. Brewster had mastered the ability to identify craft by their sounds in flight; seeking visual confirmation was often a moot exercise.

He was a sect mechanic and enjoyed working on anything that flew. His preference was for the smaller observation scout sects, but he spent majority of his time in the maintenance section, working on the larger four-winged carriers.

Brewster found the carriers most intriguing; he was amazed that the craft could get off the ground, let alone sustain flight. The complex aerodynamic surface geometry of the wings, high cycling speed, and constant precision mechanical manipulation made it amply capable of lifting the craft's weight. The long delicate wings just did not appear large or strong enough to support the bulky ellipsoidal fuselage and long narrow tail section in flight. He had witnessed hundreds of carrier departures and was still awed each time they lifted off.

The Dragon carriers—or just carriers, as the crews commonly called them—had entered operational service many years before Brewster was born and were designed for utility missions and transporting strike troops over the harsh and unforgiving terrain. Typical for most sect airframes, the carriers had three main sections—the nose, center or mid, and the aft. Most sect craft had two large curved windshields that protruded like large eyes bulging from the oval frame of the nose section.

The articulating nose section contained a crew of two and could be rotated up to ninety degrees and leveled to match the surface contour. Carriers featured a short crawl space between the nose and center sections terminating at the crew chief's station, which was located just forward of and below the wing rotator mounting pylons.

All flying craft received the default name sect, and their designs anatomically resembled the indigenous flight-capable insects. The smaller, more agile scout observation craft were also called sects by their pilots and maintenance crews; the original name was rarely used or mentioned except on the pages of some outdated maintenance documents.

No other form of flying craft was adaptable to the treacherously jagged landscape, dense sub-forests, and enormous caverns. The maneuverability and versatility of insects made them the logical design choice, but replicating the complexity of their flight characteristics presented an arduous challenge for the designers.

Many courageous pilots were lost while paving the way for improvements, which eventually led to the production of more reliable, practical, and safer sect airframes. The large majority of the flight crews could not explain the aerodynamic complexity of the esoteric designs. They just accepted that sects flew and concentrated on mastering their flying skills.

Hey, Brewster. No running on the flight terrace! a mechanic yelled while squatting in the shade underneath a bobbing wing of a moored carrier. Brewster initially ignored the warning as he bolted past the mechanic and approached the next carrier in line. Don't act like you're new out here! the mechanic screamed. You know the rules, meathead!

Well, someone sure recognized me. Thanks! Brewster screamed over his shoulder, still sweating and nearly out of breath. You know me and rules! He slowed and resumed a brisk walk as he glanced back at the frowning mechanic. Brewster did not recognize him, but he took a second glance after walking several paces and noticed the mechanic maintained a piercing stare.

That's much better, F-N-G! the mechanic screamed and then managed to grin as he shook his head slowly from side to side. Brewster slowed even more, almost down to a normal walk as he turned back to respond but managed to hold his tongue. Don't you have anything better to do? Damn buffoonery junky!

Brewster approached his assigned carrier from the left side, touching one of many contorting elastic bands on the leading edge of the large drooping aft wing. He informally inspected the soft rubberlike surface with his sliding finger tips. Four long thrust wings extended down from the rotator hinges, stopping short of contacting the ground by a foot or two.

The seemingly fragile elastic wings, with conjoined pentagon-shaped internal ribs positioned behind the front articulating spar, sporadically bobbed up and down. A network of needlelike vortex sensors on the trailing edge fluttered with the slightest breeze. The minute pitting of the leading edge that was caused by contacting disturbed gravel, vegetation and debris during the flapping cycle was made wholly visible by the red morning sun gleaming off the wing. Brewster was not deterred. Such spontaneous observations were routine for him—almost ritualistic.

Carriers were considerably fast for their size, but prolonged operation at high speeds posed stability and wing de-phasing problems.

Most carriers lacked internal weapons systems other than two door-mounted machine guns the crew chiefs or strike troops used at low airspeeds. Heavily armed versions of carriers called Dragon Gunships were loaded with several pedestal-mounted miniguns on the bulging midsection deck and folding-fin aerial proximity rocket pods hung underneath stubby protrusions mounted on the cabin roof in line with the mid landing legs. The lower nose section housed a turreted grenade launcher and minigun that could be controlled from either crew station. All available pylons contained a slew of improvised ordnance that seemed customized for each airframe. A five-person crew was standard, and gunships typically carried no passengers to make room for munitions.

Brewster expected to greet a single pilot at his carrier, perhaps even a second in training. His assigned carrier was configured as a troop transport, and the midsection featured seating accommodations for up to twelve strike troops. The troops sat in two even rows that arced outward from the main transmission closet and matched the contour of the airframe. The strike troop leader sat directly behind the crew chief's station in a small storable jump seat between the seat rows.

The midsection also contained the transverse housing, main transmission or rotator gearbox, and four thrust wings affixed to rotator grips atop the primary structure above the passenger compartment. The main rotator gearbox input driveshaft and hangar bearings formed a pronounced U-shaped ceiling which spanned half the length of the passenger compartment and merged with the structural enclosure for the cycle reserve reservoirs that separated the pax seats at the rear. Dozens of spiny vortex sensors dotted the structural panels rearward of the passenger doors.

The long narrow segmented aft section hosted the main engines, combining transmission, a smaller turbine engine, hydraulics bay, and a complex network of tubes, wire bundles, and persistently leaking actuators. The rear structural assembly featured a series of articulating oval sections that tapered to the blunt round tail, which could be positioned side to side or up and down to augment directional control, pitch, and trim. The tandem turbine engines, conjoined by a combining transmission, were longitudinally positioned at the forward end of the aft section. The engines were mounted on isolators fixed to sliding tracks, which permitted the oval sections to traverse without affecting the engine alignment relative to the rotator gearbox driveshaft.

Battery power was normally sufficient for starting the main engines, but the smaller turbine engine, typically referred to as the auxiliary power unit or APU by the crews, was used to supply additional electrical power for prolonged operations, recharging the battery, and also starting the main engines. No external power source was required to start the APU. When selected to start, built-up pressure in an accumulator supplied from the main engine bleed air system is released to spin the turbine in the APU starter generator, operate the mechanical fuel pump, and supply electrical current to the exciter box.

Plagued with a multitude of maintenance problems, carriers spent far more time on the ground than in the air. Most carriers had dozens of hastily completed structural patches and mismatched paint on replacement parts, bearing a testament to numerous aerial combat engagements.

The once boasting colorful paint schemes have all but faded and become somewhat unrecognizable. The frequent swapping of parts and repairs effectively produced a blotchy camouflaged pattern that did more to reveal the carrier's location than to offer concealment. Thousands of carriers had been lost during decades of war. All that remains of the once numerous fleet were a few hundred structurally bandaged and modernized relics.

Brewster momentarily hesitated in the shadow of the forward wing when he noticed another mechanic was sitting in the crew chief's station. Finally, he saw someone that looked familiar.

The shade of the bobbing wing provided a welcomed but ephemeral relief from the torrid conditions as the sun's heat radiated off the corrugated steel planks and bleached terrace asphalt. Brewster walked slowly toward the craft's passenger compartment and hung his flight bag on a small structural protrusion that shielded the hydraulic lines connected to the center landing leg retract actuator.

The carrier pilots were going through their checklist as the crew chief sat with little interest. The imposter's flight uniform appeared to be new—fresh off the rack. There were no grease, fuel, or fluid stains, no worn-out knees or tears. Even his calf-high black leather boots were highly polished. Brewster glanced once more at who he perceived to be his replacement as he stopped near the pilot's opened door. I should have left earlier. Flight Warrant Officer Gilm Dauhnz was reviewing the preflight checklist when he caught Brewster's boots entering his peripheral vision.

Sorry I'm late, Mr. Dauhnz, but I couldn't find the logbook, Brewster finally announced. So, what's the plan, sir?

Well, the plan is…well…the plan…has been changed somewhat, Gilm Dauhnz nebulously responded as he looked up at Brewster. Hey, I grabbed the logbook. I didn't see you in the hangar, or I would have saved you the trip out here.

Gilm Dauhnz was recently promoted to Flight Warrant Officer Two but still was considered a relatively new pilot. He worked with Brewster in maintenance for a short time until he was accepted to attend flight school. The young aviator returned nearly a year ago and had already racked up dozens of combat missions and was shot down twice.

The stress of flying combat missions had physiologically taken its toll. The light brown hair on his pale round head was prematurely graying and thinning, and he frequently blinked and nervously shrugged his shoulders while talking. At twenty-three years of age, Gilm Dauhnz was several years younger than Brewster, and at a diminutive, but stocky five feet and five inches, he was nearly half a foot shorter.

Brewster gasped and then sighed, feeling perplexed about what was becoming obvious. He stared at the pilot with a resigned expression. A changed plan? Someone in my seat. Brewster curiously stepped closer to Gilm Dauhnz to inquire.

What's going on here? Brewster respectfully demanded.

Well, Sergeant Brewster, as I'm sure you already know, Gilm Dauhnz explained, we're losing a lot of pilots.

They wouldn't dare! Brewster had worked several years in maintenance and fared well in the combat mission simulator. He felt that he had earned his new crew chief slot and deserved to go on combat missions. All the competency tests, an exhaustive orientation flight, intense survival training, and battle simulations had brought him to this point—an actual combat mission, dealing with a determined enemy in a hostile environment.

Flying a combat mission was part of his destiny, his chance to prove his mettle. How effective is the training if one never fights, never knows how they would handle the rigor, stress, and fatigue of combat? Having never experienced the brutal horrors of combat or hearing the harrowing screams of dying warriors, Brewster could only fantasize about the sanitized glamorous attraction of war—the lure of the exciting colonial recruitment messages that portrayed gallant heroes in action, always doing away with bad guys and emerging victorious. He wanted to experience war on a personal level that would bring him face-to-face with the enemy—and kill them.

Brewster's combat fantasy came to an abrupt end as he stared back into the midsection. He took another quick look at the new crew chief and wondered how anyone could possibly think he was a more competent choice. Worthless! The guy talked a good game but didn't know anything about sects…never turned a wrench on anything major…spent more time researching procedures than doing them. Heck, he couldn't tell a driveshaft from a doorknob. Absolutely worthless. So why is he in my seat?

And there was talk of making flight school even shorter. No mystery to me why so many new aviators are dying out there, Gilm Dauhnz continued while still looking up at Brewster. He removed his wrinkled hat and wiped the sweat from his prematurely balding head. Now, what they've decided to do is let the mechanics with high scores get some flight time before they go to flight school.

Flight time? Then why is this geek sitting in the back in my seat and not up front in the copilot's seat? Brewster was aware that crafts were going down. Many pilots were dying, but it seemed surreal to him. He had never seen any of the recovered bodies. None of his friends had been killed. The news of deaths was impersonal, more figures and numbers about misfortunate faceless warriors, but it had no effect on Brewster's desire to experience combat action. And he could think of no better observation platform to experience combat than from a flying craft.

Sir, you don't have to soften anything for me. Brewster paused as he crossed his arms and exhaled slowly. I take it that I'm not going on this mission? Brewster asked resolutely.

Soften? What? The warrant officer's eyebrows rose slightly as he blinked several times in rapid succession while shrugging his shoulders. Oh, you're going all right, Sergeant, but not with the carriers! Gilm Dauhnz responded as he began to grin, apparently realizing the growing consternation in Brewster about the prospect of not going on the mission. I think they have you slotted to fly as an observer in one of the scouts on some sort of recon mission…uh…carrier escort mission. But it's still outside the perimeter, so you'll get what you seem to be craving, Sergeant. Some action!

With the scouts?

Yep!

Gilm Dauhnz noticed that the news of the last-minute transfer had dampened Brewster's spirits. Being relegated to the sect team was not exactly considered a move up for crew chiefs, but Brewster was somewhat relieved with the news that he was finally going on a mission. The warrant officer turned and patted Brewster lightly on his shoulder as he tilted his head back and looked him squarely in the eyes. He knew Brewster was naïve and inexperienced—a fairly good assessment given the fact that Brewster was new to the flight terraces.

The young warrant officer was also cognizant of the fact that each mission could very well be the last. Gilm Dauhnz was particularly fearful of the Feroci's leading ace, Slayer. He had been shot down twice by Slayer and nearly killed when he was transitioning to the Hornet fighters. He loved flying escort missions in the Hornets and taking the fight to the enemy but was reassigned to fly carriers because of the pilot shortage. As a carrier pilot, his new preference was to outclimb the enemy attackers and make a run for it—live to fly another day. Flying the ass-and-trash missions in the lift section meant that he usually avoided the front lines and frequent aerial engagements.

Sergeant, I think you will be flying with Tindev…uh… Senior Warrant Stormwash in Sect Nine-Three-Five on Charlie terrace, Gilm Dauhnz said in consolation as he gestured down the slope to a narrower terrace lined with dozens of the smaller two-winged sect craft. Brewster glanced at the sects and then turned back to the warrant officer seemingly devoid of interest. He's a pretty good pilot and a damn good friend.

Well, thanks for the info, sir, Brewster said while saluting the warrant officer. And take care of the carrier. She's the best in the fleet!

Oh, you'll still get to work on her again, Sergeant, Gilm Dauhnz added as he returned the salute.

What? How's that, sir?

You're one of our best mechanics, and we still need your expertise, Gilm Dauhnz said as he smiled and blinked simultaneously. You'll be bouncing between the terraces and hangar to share that expertise and keep these things flying.

Roger, sir! Brewster snapped to attention and then turned away from Gilm Dauhnz. Back to I fix them and someone else flies in them.

Just be careful what you wish for, Sergeant, the warrant officer warned and then turned away to continue reviewing his checklist.

Brewster's eyes met the lower surface of the forward thrust wing as he reached for his flight bag. He walked between the wings in deep thought, feeling betrayed. But still, he felt his body start to tingle with excitement at the prospect of going into combat. As he approached the end of the forward wing, he extended his arm and slightly pushed up on the lower wing surface. Almost instantaneously, the opposite wing on the right side of the craft rose approximately the same distance and then dropped.

He turned and glanced back at the crew chief who still sat motionless in the seat and then nodded in resignation. Well, good luck. I hope all that researching pays off. Bring her back in one piece.

The crew chief suspiciously watched as Brewster turned to walk away. Their eyes briefly met, but then he quickly looked away and resumed nervously scanning the interior of the passenger compartment, appearing as if he was seeing it for the first time.

Some higher-ups in flight operations opined that prospective flight school applicants from the maintenance sections should have the opportunity to experience flying in a combat environment. They rationalized that the experience would give them an edge over students from non-aviation fields, such as strike troop infantry, armored crawlers, tunnelers, and the administrative paper pushers. Although the actual sect assignments were based on standings within the class and mastery of skills, students with prior flight experience generally ranked higher and had their choice for sect selection.

The common preference was to fly the armed Hornet fighters, carriers ranked a distant second, and scout sects followed closely behind. Assignments to the heavy-lift section were often the result of marginal flight performance and the student's inability to grasp key tactical concepts. Such pilots were usually relegated to flying the large bulky Mantis, a frighteningly slow and less glamorous heavy-lift sect typically used to recover downed craft and transport oversized cargo loads.

A decision was apparently made, and Brewster knew it wasn't the imposter's fault or doing. After all, the crew chief had a higher, rather, passing flight aptitude test score. The crew chief was going to flight school; Brewster was not. He needed the experience—to see what it was like for the pilots before joining their ranks. The score was all they cared about; it's all that mattered. Who cares if a mechanic can rig the center transmission wing phasing gears on a carrier or walk the craft with landing legs squatted on an inclined surface? Both are very challenging tasks which require intense concentration and dexterity, but they have nothing to do with how a pilot might fly a craft, which is what the test is supposed to measure.

Brewster began a slow walk meandering away from the carrier, heading in the general direction of Charlie terrace. He looked out across the corrugated colorful steel planks that dotted the flight terrace, illuminated by the brilliance of the gleaming morning sun, and mentally plotted a course that would avoid the rusting jagged edges of a nearby crater-damaged and bullet-riddled plank. Despite the extensive damage to the tarmac from decades of fighting, the area around the sects was generally clear of debris.

Sergeant Brewster! Gilm Dauhnz screamed. You don't have all day. I think he's doing the preflight now, so let's pick it up!

Yessir, moving! Brewster replied, coming back to reality. He returned to the brisk pace that preceded his arrival at the carrier.

He arrived on Charlie terrace and began scanning tail numbers on the smaller sect flyers for Nine-Three-Five. The diminutive two-seat sects were closely fashioned after the common housefly by the designers and were considerably agile and maneuverable but lacked the range and speed of the larger carriers.

The sects were originally designed as observation craft, but with the Hornet fighters suffering heavy losses, many were subsequently modified to carry a small turret-mounted minigun and a few aerial proximity rockets. Armed versions of sects were typically employed as escorts for carriers and to provide close-air support for strike troops.

Although the sect craft was typically equipped with two seats and dual flight controls in the cramped crew compartment, it was usually flown by a single pilot flying from the left seat. Brewster had heard from some boasting sect mechanics that the sects were much more maneuverable than the prized Hornet fighters, which seemed reasonable to him given the Hornet's bulky size, but he had never flown in either craft to know for sure. Other than in the crew training simulator and a brief maintenance test flight that was arranged by his good friend, Senior Sergeant Tran Connors, his orientation flight was only the second time he had flown in a military craft, but he racked up numerous flying hours in a civil craft.

Brewster learned to fly an older single-seat Mosquito craft when he was fourteen years old. Newell Kyjeck, a retired aging veteran of the Early Hive War and a close family friend, acquired the Aminer Mosquito when it was categorized as surplus by the Free Colony Defense Forces Acquisitions Board. It was one of only three surviving operational Mosquito craft at the time. Newell Kyjeck eventually acquired the other two after they were damaged and used them for spare parts. The decorated veteran taught Brewster to fly the craft as part of a self-imposed debt to a very dear friend—the elder Brewster.

He removed some antiquated avionics equipment boxes and large bulky radios behind the pilot's seat to make room for cargo, or in Brewster's case, a small person. The space was just large enough for Brewster, sitting on a small discomforting thin pad with his legs straddling the sides of the pilot's seat support structure, to see around Newell Kyjeck's shoulders. It was even more cramped for Newell Kyjeck when Brewster was flying, but somehow Newell was not only able to squeeze back there, but in less than a second, he could slither his arms around Brewster and take the control stick.

Mosquitoes have long since been obsolete in the Colony Defense Forces because of the wing limitations. In its final years, the missions had to be relatively short and usually confined to perimeter patrols and local aerial observations. Nonetheless, Brewster thought the Mosquito was fun to fly and he enjoyed flying the craft regardless how short the flights were.

The models used for aerial patrols, such as Newell Kyjeck's, had been modified to carry a turreted minigun, but all armament had been stripped long before they were declared surplus. The designers feared the minigun encouraged daring pilots to attempt gun runs and fighter-like maneuvers, which frequently stressed the Mosquito's delicate airframe and fragile wings. Alarming statistics revealed that more Mosquitoes crashed as a result of wing or structural failure than were ever shot down and hastened their obsolescence.

Their safety and reliability as a civil recreational craft was questionable. Mosquitoes were constructed with conjoined all-metal wing segments and hinged ribs with a rigid spar hinge that mounted directly to the rotator gearbox under the transverse housing. Aminer Craft never produced an acceptable retrofit composite wing because of the enormous cost; it proved cheaper to design an entirely new craft. Newell Kyjeck eventually acquired several pairs of the prototype composite wings and manufacturing jigs at a surplus sale. However, the aviation authority refused to certify them for civil use, citing more costly tests were needed after an intense lobbying effort from Aminer's chief rival.

The Mosquito's wing featured a rigid spar design that made them particularly prone to stress cracks, fatigue, and structural failure, often resulting in a disastrous wing separation and a radical departure from controlled flight. Aminer claimed that three-hour flights were possible, but the Colonial Defense Forces (CDF) and practically everyone else limited flights to no more than two hours in duration. After which, the pilot had to land to conduct crucial inspections and maintenance. The pilot also had to be particularly careful not to abruptly load the wings, which could significantly reduce flying time. Most pilots watched the wing load meter more than any other instrument and flew straight and level, making turns and course corrections with aft section input via the thorax positioner.

Newell Kyjeck made many special modifications to the mosquito. His crawler garage had been transformed into a small machine shop for maintaining and modifying the Mosquito. His tools and equipment soon displaced the family's all-terrain crawler and encroached into the small living space at the far end of the garage. He made design improvements to the prototype composite wings and was able to salvage miscellaneous avionics equipment from the Aminer scrap yard with the understanding that Aminer assumed no liability.

The lone flyable mosquito had been grounded for several years as Newell Kyjeck sought to improve the craft's design. The disassembled craft, draped with a tattered tarp, collected dust in the cluttered garage. Brewster was dismayed with the lack of progress that Newell Kyjeck was making and resolved that he would probably never fly the craft again.

The sects were parked neatly in a row, all facing the same direction with the tail out toward the edge of the terrace. Brewster continued down until he observed the fading black numbers 1-6-9-3-5 stenciled on the rear of the sect's aft section. He noticed a mature figure in ragged greenish-gray coveralls with his sleeves partially rolled up reviewing the checklist. The pilot had already opened most of the craft's access panels and was well underway in his preflight inspection.

He methodically used a checklist to ensure no part was omitted or overlooked. Brewster noticed his rugged face and tight-jawed expression as the pilot thumbed through the pages. Sweat droplets from his forehead found the pages of the checklist. The pilot wiped the sweat from his head with his fingers, flung them briskly, and then smeared the wetness on the pages.

Good morning, sir! Brewster announced as he rendered a salute. I'm Sergeant Brewster. I'm a carrier crew chief but was told that I'd be flying with you today.

The pilot placed a finger, still moist from sweat, on the page he was viewing and then closed his checklist with his other hand. He tilted his head down slightly to see over his glasses and raised his arm to return the salute. The pilot lowered his flimsy salute only halfway and extended his hand straight out to Brewster.

G'morning, Sergeant! the pilot replied. "I'm Tindev Stormwash, and you're in the right place. You can help me complete the preflight and power-on checks, then I gotta dash for a briefing while you get her all closed up and ready to go. The senior warrant officer paused while pushing his glasses firmly in place. Think you can handle that?"

Yessir! Brewster replied with much excitement as he reached out to shake the pilot's hand. Just let me know where you want me to begin.

The aging flight warrant officer paused as he studied Brewster's face. You can start by grounding your gear and following along with the checklist. Senior Stormwash looked down at the name tape on Brewster's flight suit. He gazed again at Brewster's face and pondered why this young man seemed very familiar to him. There was something he did not want to recall, something that periodically resurfaced as if it just happened. Forgetting was the preferred way for him to cope with the profound fear wrought by a near-death experience—a fear that would not have permitted him to continue flying combat missions for years. The fear still remained, but he later learned to suppress and effectively mask it.

Brewster? Senior Stormwash uttered. Hmmm…that name…you look familiar. He searched Brewster's face for a forgotten familiarity. Any relation to a Ked Brewster?

Yessir. He was my dad, Brewster answered. He died when I was very young. I really don't know a lot about him.

The senior warrant's eyes widened as Brewster's answer confirmed his suspicion, but the strong resemblance alone would have sufficed. He extended his right hand to Brewster while he clutched his checklist against his chest. His expression was unexpected, likewise the handshake. Brewster skeptically reached again for his hand.

Well, I can tell you this much, Senior Stormwash said as he firmly grasped and shook Brewster's hand. He was a great pilot, one of our best. He saved my tail a few times. Bless his soul!

He released his grip on the young man's hand and slowly retuned it to the checklist. I remember the last time I saw him…

The senior warrant recalled a nerve-jarring mission when he was jumped from behind by an enemy Wasp fighter pilot with superb flying skills. It was as though the enemy craft suddenly materialized in perfect firing position behind him. Senior Stormwash did everything he could to shake him, but the Feroci craft remained tight on his tail.

He vividly remembered reporting that he was taking enemy fire and in trouble. His Hornet fighter had taken numerous hits and was violently shaking.

He relived the burst that blew out the hydraulic pumps and ruptured the fuel cell.

Realizing that his craft was doomed, he struggled to level the violently bucking craft and issued a frantic Mayday radio call. The enemy craft that had effortlessly tormented him whisked past and was rolling around to the right for another gun run.

This is it! Senior Stormwash remembered screaming as the enemy craft disappeared from view, circling around. He firmly pressed the right yaw control pedal in a vain effort to bring the crippled Hornet around, but it was sluggish in responding because of the damaged thorax positioning actuators.

He recalled being visibly frightened and nervously trembled with anticipation of the next burst of minigun impacts. He felt a distasteful dry paste in his mouth and a terrible nauseating sickness in his stomach. His right hand was momentarily jolted free of the shaking primary control stick, and he struggled to grasp it firmly with both hands. Underneath the lower windshield, he saw fiery blue tracers streak forward.

Senior Stormwash remembered hearing more excruciatingly loud banging sounds ripping through his craft and felt it shutter even more violently. The tracers suddenly arced to the target and then ceased altogether. Ked Brewster had joined the fight.

The elder Brewster rolled in behind the new enemy ace, releasing a burst of minigun fire, causing him to immediately disengage from Senior Stormwash and execute evasive maneuvers. His craft lost power and descended into a small clearing in the jagged forest. He scrambled from the burning craft just seconds before it exploded, and then he climbed up on a small mound, untethered, to watch the riveting aerial duel.

He spotted his savior, but alas, smoke was billowing from his craft with the enemy ace in close pursuit as the elder Brewster disappeared beyond the horizon. He jumped on the mound to see if the craft would reemerge but only saw a plume of thick black smoke rising.

No one had seen Ked Brewster again. That was many years ago, and Senior Stormwash wanted to put that chapter of his life behind him—forever. He was now a veteran combat ace with numerous kills to his credit.

Brewster was never told the truth about how his father died. His mother did not want him following in his father's footsteps. She feared that someday, he would become a pilot and fly off into combat and never return, like his father. She hid the medals of valor and all evidence of Ked Brewster's military service.

She deceitfully told Brewster that his father was killed in a crawler accident on his way home from work. Brewster did not understand why she was emotionally distraught when he informed her of his decision to enlist in the Colony Defense Forces, why she wept. She lost her husband and soul mate to the war; she didn't want to lose her only son. She cried every time Brewster took to the sky in the family friend's Mosquito craft. The beckoning of the flying craft and the excitement of combat action eventually won out, and Brewster enlisted in the flight corps.

The veteran combat pilot followed the preflight checklist methodically as Brewster studiously watched. Senior Stormwash placed his foot through a spring-loaded door that concealed a small maintenance step. With the checklist clasped in his left hand, he reached up with the other to grab a small handle and thrust himself atop the craft, grabbing the left wing at the root simultaneously to secure his position. Without hesitation, he immediately resumed his inspection.

I didn't know how my father died, Brewster revealed. at least not that version—what you just told me. My mother never told me he flew for the Colony Defense Forces. Brewster looked at the senior warrant with a quizzical expression. I…well… I always thought he had a job flying for Aminer Craft, and that's where he knew Mr. Kyjeck. Brewster was intrigued and really wanted to know more about his father. Did you know him, sir?

Newell Kyjeck?

Uh…well…did you know him too? Mr. Kyjeck?

Never met him, but he was quite a legend. Heard he knew everything. You'd think he was a designer. I think he retired 'bout the time I left for flight school.

Hardly a designer, Brewster thought. That pile of junk in his garage is proof.

Uh, no sir, I was really asking about my father—Ked Brewster. Did you know him?

Not personally, Sergeant. I only saw him a few times and heard lot of stories about him, but I was never in his circle or in his league, Senior Stormwash answered candidly. I didn't even realize that he was the one who saved me until he was reported missing in action near where I was shot down. He paused once more, closed the checklist, and then stared blankly, adrift in a silent solemn tribute. Your old man was a real hero, son, the senior warrant said as he refocused his eyes on Brewster. And don't let anybody ever tell you different!

This is really strange for me, finding out my dad was in the CDF and that he flew combat missions. Brewster's tone was more somber. He wanted to hear more about his father's military service, about his combat missions. What's combat like? I mean, what's it like out there? Brewster asked.

Senior Stormwash hesitated to answer. The war-weary senior warrant's expression was strikingly reminiscent of Brewster's mother when he informed her that he was joining the CDF.

Look, I've lost some good friends. They're never coming back. Trust me, war sucks, the senior warrant snapped. There are no winners. Everyone loses.

Brewster could sense a slight agitation in Senior Stormwash's response. He observed the frown appearing over the brim of the senior warrant's dark-lens glasses. Perhaps this is a subject the senior warrant doesn't care to discuss. Senior Stormwash was aware that he did not answer Brewster's question to any extent that would satisfy him. He had just explained how he was nearly killed in combat. What more did Brewster want to hear? The senior warrant noticed Brewster's distracted expression, one of having an insatiable curiosity for the minute details of war.

Senior Stormwash removed his glasses with his free hand while he continued to cling to the wing root grip on the rotator mechanism. He looked at Brewster with a piercing stare. He felt reluctantly obligated to try to quench Brewster's curiosity.

A few months ago, I lost my wingman on a mission, he started as he released his grip on the wing root and sat down on the transverse housing above the rotator gearbox. We were doing okay until their ace showed up and ruined our day. I'm surprised that bastard is still alive. Must be getting old now, hopefully near death. Anyway, Senior Stormwash continued. My wingman had a mechanical problem, and I ordered him to return to base. I cut up the valley right at them and tried to draw their fire, but they let me go.

The senior warrant placed his glasses and the checklist atop the traverse housing and began to mimic the battle with his hands. By the time I got turned around, they were already on him. The senior warrant sighed and then continued. "Thomins never had a chance. He had a control problem. They shot him down on the first pass. He crash-landed and was injured. I flew in to give him some cover