Post by Feyd on May 16, 2010 22:12:31 GMT -5
87th Integrated Fleet- Big Sioux
London- Great Britain
Novemeber 17 UC0079- 0643
A short curse escaped between his lips as the nearly empty mug he had just set on the desk tipped over, a small trickle of coffee trickling out onto one of the many piles of reports scattered across his desk. Fortunately, it was a stack he had already finished reading the night before. 1st Lieutenant Jim Irwin sighed and clasped his hands behind his head as he leaned back in the plain folding chair that served his meager desk in what was once a maintenance closet.
Why am I always the one who ends up surviving?
What would have been unthinkable to him before the war had happened: Irwin had been promoted to Lieutenant. A former NCO, he was now a commissioned officer, a once rare but increasingly common occurrence in the Federal military as the war dragged on. At first he had greeted the news with excitement but as the weeks lingered on he began to regret his fortune. Commander of the air group, he was responsible for every plane and pilot in the fleet. The duties of a CAG never seemed to end and his only seemed to increase with the size of the autonomous 87th Integrated fleet.
Another 16 planes last week…
The bright fluorescent lighting with its constant and somewhat harsh illumination gave no hint to the actual time but a quick glance at his watch told him the sun had probably peaked over the horizon by now. It was almost time for his meeting with the old man.
---
Brigadier General Olaf Ostlund leaned back in the red recliner that served as his desk chair, hands resting easily on his gut as his CAG entered the room. He was a man who believed in comfort wherever possible; if a man had to do uncomfortable thinking his body might as well be comfortable. Being the commander of the fleet and believing he had the most uncomfortable thinking to do, he had the best chair. There were no other chairs in the office aside from the one occupied by a young orderly sitting to his left, a much more meager affair befitting the man’s status.
Irwin took a few steps forward before saluting sharply.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” the general barked in a deep gravelly voice. “So what news does my falconer bring me about the birds today?”
Jim struggled to keep himself from rolling his eyes at one of the general’s many unnecessary metaphors he liked to employ. Broadening the men’s cultural horizons he liked to say.
“Well sir, repairs and maintenance to the air group undergone at Belfast have been completed satisfactorily. We have also added sixteen new aircraft, eight Cods and eight Mantas, pilots are fresh from basic flight training but we should be able to turn them into airmen.”
Cods, Mantas, what’s next Herring?
How Olaf wished the Federation had given its aircraft more dissimilar names. A traditional Norwegian, he preferred to enjoy his fish one at a time. Ostlund tended to confuse the various fishy Federal aircraft, but it concerned him little. Rumor had it that this Lieutenant Irwin was one of the best fighter pilots in the Federation. He would certainly know the difference between a Snail and an Escargot!
“Damnable Federation and their stupid naming, Revil would change things like this if he were more sensible. I certainly would, confusing the rank and file and whatnot…”
Jim suppressed a smile as the general continued on one of his typical tyrades about the inadequacies of Federal leadership.
“Tanks! Now there was something a real military man could appreciate! Simple, dependable, a man’s machine…”
The ranting continued as Jim glanced at the corner of his eye at the general’s orderly who had long ago stopped recording the conversation as he quietly tapped the pen on his knee.
“I hope your aircraft have not taken up all our hanger space, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t want my tankers to have any trouble going to battle. I keep in close contact with Sergeant Vermillion on his ability to deploy effectively…”
The General’s face was beginning to match his beard in redness, as often happened when he began talking and forgot to breathe.
“There haven’t been any complaints, sir; in fact I heard that they also added six new tanks to the fleet while we were at Belfast.”
A pudgy fist slammed down on the desk startling the orderly out of his complacency.
“Six tanks! Why does no one tell me this?”
He had most likely been notified in some report but Irwin had noticed that the farther up the chain of command a report got, the less it was read. Besides, six tanks in an age of mobile suit combat was unlikely to change the tide in any battle.
“Aside from that, there’s nothing else to really report, sir.”
“Ah what’s that Irwin, done you say? Carry on then…” He turned back to continue barking at his orderly who was scribbling furiously. To such chaos, Jim saluted before turning and leaving the room.
And to think we’re supposedly winning this war…
London- Great Britain
Novemeber 17 UC0079- 0643
A short curse escaped between his lips as the nearly empty mug he had just set on the desk tipped over, a small trickle of coffee trickling out onto one of the many piles of reports scattered across his desk. Fortunately, it was a stack he had already finished reading the night before. 1st Lieutenant Jim Irwin sighed and clasped his hands behind his head as he leaned back in the plain folding chair that served his meager desk in what was once a maintenance closet.
Why am I always the one who ends up surviving?
What would have been unthinkable to him before the war had happened: Irwin had been promoted to Lieutenant. A former NCO, he was now a commissioned officer, a once rare but increasingly common occurrence in the Federal military as the war dragged on. At first he had greeted the news with excitement but as the weeks lingered on he began to regret his fortune. Commander of the air group, he was responsible for every plane and pilot in the fleet. The duties of a CAG never seemed to end and his only seemed to increase with the size of the autonomous 87th Integrated fleet.
Another 16 planes last week…
The bright fluorescent lighting with its constant and somewhat harsh illumination gave no hint to the actual time but a quick glance at his watch told him the sun had probably peaked over the horizon by now. It was almost time for his meeting with the old man.
---
Brigadier General Olaf Ostlund leaned back in the red recliner that served as his desk chair, hands resting easily on his gut as his CAG entered the room. He was a man who believed in comfort wherever possible; if a man had to do uncomfortable thinking his body might as well be comfortable. Being the commander of the fleet and believing he had the most uncomfortable thinking to do, he had the best chair. There were no other chairs in the office aside from the one occupied by a young orderly sitting to his left, a much more meager affair befitting the man’s status.
Irwin took a few steps forward before saluting sharply.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” the general barked in a deep gravelly voice. “So what news does my falconer bring me about the birds today?”
Jim struggled to keep himself from rolling his eyes at one of the general’s many unnecessary metaphors he liked to employ. Broadening the men’s cultural horizons he liked to say.
“Well sir, repairs and maintenance to the air group undergone at Belfast have been completed satisfactorily. We have also added sixteen new aircraft, eight Cods and eight Mantas, pilots are fresh from basic flight training but we should be able to turn them into airmen.”
Cods, Mantas, what’s next Herring?
How Olaf wished the Federation had given its aircraft more dissimilar names. A traditional Norwegian, he preferred to enjoy his fish one at a time. Ostlund tended to confuse the various fishy Federal aircraft, but it concerned him little. Rumor had it that this Lieutenant Irwin was one of the best fighter pilots in the Federation. He would certainly know the difference between a Snail and an Escargot!
“Damnable Federation and their stupid naming, Revil would change things like this if he were more sensible. I certainly would, confusing the rank and file and whatnot…”
Jim suppressed a smile as the general continued on one of his typical tyrades about the inadequacies of Federal leadership.
“Tanks! Now there was something a real military man could appreciate! Simple, dependable, a man’s machine…”
The ranting continued as Jim glanced at the corner of his eye at the general’s orderly who had long ago stopped recording the conversation as he quietly tapped the pen on his knee.
“I hope your aircraft have not taken up all our hanger space, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t want my tankers to have any trouble going to battle. I keep in close contact with Sergeant Vermillion on his ability to deploy effectively…”
The General’s face was beginning to match his beard in redness, as often happened when he began talking and forgot to breathe.
“There haven’t been any complaints, sir; in fact I heard that they also added six new tanks to the fleet while we were at Belfast.”
A pudgy fist slammed down on the desk startling the orderly out of his complacency.
“Six tanks! Why does no one tell me this?”
He had most likely been notified in some report but Irwin had noticed that the farther up the chain of command a report got, the less it was read. Besides, six tanks in an age of mobile suit combat was unlikely to change the tide in any battle.
“Aside from that, there’s nothing else to really report, sir.”
“Ah what’s that Irwin, done you say? Carry on then…” He turned back to continue barking at his orderly who was scribbling furiously. To such chaos, Jim saluted before turning and leaving the room.
And to think we’re supposedly winning this war…