Welcome to the Striker

SUBMITTED BY: EN Ricaud / Omicron-3-3 / VSD Striker
HOLONET REGISTRATION: <
ValRicaud@aol.com>

"She's beautiful," Ensign Val Ricaud whispered almost under his breath, gazing deeply at her. Sleek, sharp lines made up her entire length, occasionally but covertly interrupted by the small bumps of sensor packages and turbolaser turrets. Although she was slightly bigger than Val had expected, there was certainly no mistaking the exquisite beauty about her.

He looked away and then glanced back at her again furtively just to assure himself that she was still there, and he was not seeing a mirage. "Absolutely stunning," he uttered again. The shuttle pilot shot a look at Val and smiled, then turned back to look at her himself.

"She sure is."

The co-pilot sniggered, "For a Victory."

The Victory-class Star Destroyer Striker rested at the centre of a vista laid out before the canopy of the shuttle cockpit. Deep in interplanetary space and framed in the background by Elmass system's star, it was bounded on each side by metallic ribs, which had served originally as the main device for holding together the various, assorted parts of the Striker when it was being built, but was now simply a holding pen for the vessel.

As the pilots took the shuttle in closer, more and more details became apparent. The occasional unfinished hull plate; intense flashes which highlighted parts of the vessel as huge cranes conducted final welding operations; exterior paint layers being applied; turbolaser cannon barrels being fitted; everywhere he looked Val could see the flurry of activity as the rush to complete the construction of the Striker before launch heightened.

The shuttle arched out from the Striker for a kilometre and then wheeled back around, perfectly lined up with the hangar bay. At half a kilometre the co-pilot throttled down the engines and allowed the craft to glide gently onto the brand-new, gleaming black flight deck. A slight lurch and almost undetectable shudder were the only signals that the Lambda-class shuttle had finally landed and the journey was complete. In the deadly silence of post-landing, the pilots continued checks on pressure seals, oxygen valves and fuel tanks to assure complete safety. Then with the smooth flick of a hand the co-pilot released the clamps that held the boarding ramp in place, and with a soft whurr audible through the hull plates it clamped down onto the deck. Satisfied, Val left the cockpit with a casual salute and round of thanks and made his way aft to the ramp to rendezvous along with the other passengers from Aurora Prime before finally disembarking.

At the lip of the ramp the passengers had been brought in from the cavernous hold at the very rear of the shuttle, and arrayed in two neat queues. At the head of each queue was an Imperial navy trooper, easily recognisable by the beetle-like helmet, making final checks for smuggled bombs or weapons. Each passenger was subsequently given the all clear and allowed to make their way down the ramp onto the flight deck. One of the troopers noticed Val approaching from the cockpit, motioned towards him slightly but then noticed his rank and positions insignia, and gave a brief nod of approval for the pilot to disembark.

"Hey!" one of the mechanics at the middle of a queue exclaimed as Val began to step onto the ramp, "why does he get to just walk out?"

"Because," the trooper of that respective queue barked in a deep and menacing voice, "he is a starfighter pilot, and you are a technician."

"I've been a loyal technician of the Empire for eight years, though!"

The trooper let out a low growl and raised his blaster carbine slightly higher into the air, in a pseudo-aim towards the man. Val, observing the entire incident with amused interest, cut a hand across the carbine so as to push it away from its aim. "It's okay, let him pass."

He glared back at Val, a clear-cut conflict taking place between duty and rank. Finally, he looked away and saluted sharply, "Yessir."

Val nodded towards the man and made a gesture for him to follow. The technician picked up two suitcases brimming with luggage that were on either side of him, and trundled his way towards the pilot. He wasn't tall, but neither was he particularly small. Although he had all the brashness of a technician out of mechanic school, the man was clearly into his late forties or early fifties, with greyed hair and moustache. Life also appeared to have treated him well, and his heavier-than-average weight lended itself to make him appear shorter than he actually was. Val picked up pace alongside him and the two made the short trip down off the ramp onto the flight deck before a word was spoken.

"You haven't change a bit, Kaddarr," Val grinned broadly at the man.

"Well I can't say the same to you," Kaddarr stopped briefly and then lurched forwards again towards a nearby turbolift cluster. "I didn't have you pinned down as the beard type."

Continuing after him, Val stroked his beard in self-dignity. "Why not?"

Kaddarr grinned and snorted, "It makes you look.... wise. You've never been the wise type. Gung-ho, yes. Experienced, yes. Knowledgeable, yes. But not wise as in Jedi Master wise."

"It doesn't really matter anyway," Val sighed. "I'll probably have to lose it. You know regulations."

"Yep, I sure know regulations. You got no luggage?"

"It's already been brought and placed in my quarters. Starfighter Pilot's Privilege," Val laughed. "So what brings you to the Striker?"

"Promotion, amazingly. I'm going to be the new Chief Mechanic."

"That took its time," he sniggered. "If nothing else, you are one of the greatest mechanics this side of the Maw Cluster."

Kaddarr put on an injured look. "What do you mean 'one of the'? I am the greatest mechanic this side of the Maw Cluster."

"Whatever you say, Kaddarr. As long as you promise to stay away from my fighter."

"Oh? Why is that?" the old mechanic tried to appear innocent.

"You know why, Kaddarr. You can't help putting your fingers into fighters and tweaking the stats around a bit, or making various modifications which you fail to tell the pilot about until they find out the hard way in the middle of a furball. You go near my fighter and I'll have you court martialled."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Kaddarr sulked.

"And I doubt it would be the last."

* * *

"Omicron Squadron leader?"

"Yes?"

They caught each other's eye at the same time. Val said, "Ensign Val Ricaud, Omicron Squadron flight-3-3. Reporting for duty, sir."

"Ah. Nice to meet you. I'm Lieutenant McDougall, but I'm most often called Agony. Could you possibly guess why?"

"I have a number of ideas why, yes sir."

"Good. It might be best if you keep them to yourself, then," then he added in afterthought, flashing a grin, "oh, and if my name were "sir", it would say so on my birth certificate."

Val looked around the bridge of the Striker. It was big and spacious, although some of the stark angles were harsh to the eye. On the way from the hangar, he had noticed that the corridors reeked of chemical detergents and cleaners. Soon the smell would fade, though, and give way to the mingled scents of the crew of the Striker.

All the higher-ranking officers of the ship had been called to the bridge for their first meeting with the captain. Bridge officers, starfighter pilots, department heads, and first officer all wandered around the gleaming white room, occasionally bumping into somebody they vaguely recognised and sparing a brief minute or two to chat.

"I hate forced socialisation," mumbled Val, "what better way to make us get along than trap us all together and keep us waiting?"

McDougall said, "I won't argue with you there, Ensign. In my experience, it's best to throw everybody in the cockpit and let friendships form there."

"In my experience, it's best to throw everybody in the ship's lounge and let friendships form there. Not enough alcohol in the cockpit" chuckled Val.

With a slight sigh of relief from everybody in the room, the captain of the Striker entered, a datapad tucked under one arm as he stalked briskly into the centre of the bridge. Taking the lead, the ship's first officer barked, "Officers, atten-shun!"

Years of military experience between them, the officers quickly fell into a single rank, lined up in order of position. "Permission to fall in, sir," the first officer requested.

"Permission granted, Lieutenant Commander," the captain replied, and the sub-ordinate stepped quickly to the head of the line and stood to rigid attention.

All eyes facing dead ahead, the man took a step back from the group so as to observe them all, like an artist would sum up the beginnings of a portrait. "I am Captain Stele," he barked suddenly, causing Val to almost physically jump with a startled fright. "I will be the commanding officer of the Striker from hereon in until the Imperial Navy sees fit to promote, transfer, retire or demote me. Understood?"

"Yessir," the line barked simultaneously.

Stele then stepped closer to the head of the line, and glanced down at the datapad he now held in his right hand. "Lieutenant Commander Dervin, Striker First Officer," he stated and then glanced up at Dervin to confirm.

"Yes, sir," he replied, slowly, cautiously.

Stele then went on to give a brief lowdown of Dervin's Imperial service record, picking out the points he found most interesting or amusing. The same process was repeated down the line until he came to the last of the starfighter pilots, before moving onto the bridge crew. "Ensign Val Ricaud, Omicron Squadron pilot."

"Yes, sir," Val repeated the ceremony which the others had created in this short time.

"Hmm. You have a.... colourful record, Ensign Ricaud."

"I hope that's a compliment, sir."

Stele continued, ignoring him, "You received an Imperial Cross of Bravery for actions above and beyond the call of duty at the Battle of Coruscant. Several citations and recommendations from previous squadron leaders, wing commanders, and captains. Several reported incidents of minor insubordination, too. I won't go on, Ricaud."

"Thank you, sir."

And so Stele proceeded down the line, reached the end and backed off again to his original position. "Personally, I would like to say what a privilege it is to be serving with such fine officers. I am quite certain that the Striker will accomplish great things in the future - you will be vital in helping to achieve those accomplishments. On another, final note if anybody has any ideas for the launching ceremony, please come to my office before the end of the day."

Stele slowly gazed from one end of the line to the other, then finally said, "Dismissed."

As the gathering dissolved into widespread chaos as each officer made their own way, Val caught McDougall by the shoulder, grinning broadly. "You know, I have an idea ..."

* * *

Val's shielded TIE interceptor, affectionately nick-named "Warlock", shot out of the hangar, and for him the launching ceremony of the Striker was underway. Reporters and press from all over the Galactic Empire and beyond had been invited to the launch, as well as dignitaries from the military and civilian authorities of the Empire and the Duchy of Cambria, whose territory included the Elmass system -- a vital starship construction centre, making it just as vital to win the friendship of the Duchy. Indeed, it was rumoured that young Duke Atarik and the man behind the curtain of the Duchy who pulled the Duke's strings, Captain-General Oberon, were present at the ceremony. If so, then the need to impress was even more vital.

"Team Two Leader here," Val barked into the radio, "let's queue up and count the eggs."

The stream of acknowledgements came in and the pilots moved into a standard v-crest formation, heading away from the Striker at 50% throttle. At the six kilometre mark gave the appropriate order to his flight and the formation wheeled about, not losing an inch in positioning.

"Very nice Team Two, let's keep it that way."

If all went well, each of the four demonstration flights of the Striker formed especially for the occasion would now be at the respective points of a cross, six klicks out, with the Striker in the centre. They would then race to the centre of the cross, reach the rendezvous point at the same time, avoid collision, take up flanking positions and then wait for the Chimaera to arrive for its role as the honor guard of the Striker until it left the Elmass system.

Val switched to the Striker general comm channel and spoke into the radio, "Team Two Lead to Team One Lead. You want us to slow down for your boys?"

"See if you can keep up, Team Two Lead," McDougall's voice boomed across the radio. The challenge was on.

Switching back to the Team Two channel, Val spoke again, "Ricaud here. Four, you have the lead. Maintain standard formation velocity - don't overtake any of the other squadrons."

"Four here, roger that."

Grinning with childish glee, Val punched his throttle to 100% and diverted all laser and shield power to the engines. Cross-checking his HUD with his nav computer he lined the fighter's wedge-shaped nose for the rendezvous point and held the control column steady. Occasionally vibrations rocked the TIE interceptor to and fro, but it never faltered from its course. "Okay Agony, let's give the good Duke a show to remember," he said to the cockpit, empty save for himself. An impromptu demonstration of Imperial dogfighting skills would, if anything, most certainly force the Duke into thinking about becoming less possessive over the Elmass system.

His sensors tagged McDougall's own shielded TIE interceptor closing at an equally tremendous speed to Val's. Wrenching the last drips of power from the fighter to the engines, Val compensated for drift to align his interceptor with its opposite and counted down the distance. If the improvisation went wrong, they would be kicked out of the Imperial Navy. If it went well... probably the same fate awaited them, Val mused.

With little warning, the greyed blur of the Striker was below him, and -- forced to assume that everything had been timed properly -- he yanked the control column back into his chest and held on for dear life. Relief passed through him as he caught a glimpse of McDougall's TIE flashing by mid-way through an equally-tight loop. Reaching the top of the climb, Val spun the TIE violently and levelled out in a flashy manoeuvre that had been banned at the academy for safety reasons.

The warning lights around Val's cockpit blared, and he shot a look backwards. Cursing as his eyes found the interceptor on his tail, he put the TIE into a steep dive, spun out, looped up and dived again. It would have lost any other pilot - even brought Val out onto their tails if he were lucky. But an Omicron Squadron pilot -- particularly its commander -- was no ordinary pilot at all. Warnings went off again as McDougall latched onto him with an imaginary missile lock.

A strategy forming in his head, Val continued on the dive and shot past the hull of the Striker by bare metres, taking the display dogfight downwards so that when the other squadrons continued on the formation flying they would not collide with the two fighters. As he had thought, and hoped, McDougall was still on his tail, ducking and weaving just in case Val pulled a stunt of some sort. Which, of course, he fully intended to do.

Just to assure the crowd that he was not lagging behind in the impressibility stakes, McDougall went into a low yo-yo, attempting to lure Val into a false sense of security. He checked his six, to find the TIE interceptor gone. Seconds later, it popped back into view, low-powered lasers blaring so as to just try and paint the interceptor and confirm a kill. Taking the opportunity, Val executed a high-powered barrel roll. Any normal barrel roll would have been easily accepted by the fighter, but this one pushed the boundaries of the computer safety-monitoring system too far. Thinking that the extremely-high Gs indicated an out-of-control manoeuvre, the computer automatically cut off the engines. Val levelled out, and they reinitiated.

But it was too late. In the short time of cut-out, his TIE interceptor had slowed down and McDougall realised he was going to overshoot. Val saw it, and pulled a reverse turn back toward the other TIE, purposefully too early. It was the famous "Scissors" move that was brought about by the same kind of pilot errors that the two had just made. When a dogfight goes into a scissors, it is fairly certain that one or both pilots have already screwed up. It was a common mistake of many a rookie, and the death of equally many

Val, though, knew exactly what he was doing. McDougall, in the offensive scissors position, had the sole objective of matching speed with the fighter ahead of him while having enough manoeuvrability to bring his guns to bear. Val was not about to let him. He went into a high-speed vertical reversal, commonly known as the "Immelman". The Immelman was the standard manoeuvre for the defensive pilot to exit a scissors, and McDougall was probably already half-guessing Val's intention. When he pitched his TIE up though, he cut back the thrust and executed at one-half of a loop, terminating the manoeuvre high-inverted from McDougall. Knowing he already had the lieutenant off-balance, Val continued to go onto the death-blow and dived into a "Split-S" half-loop. Rolling inverted from the Aborted Immelman, he pulled back on the stick and dived, maintaining the pressure until he spotted McDougall's bewildered TIE interceptor flash overhead, still continuing on a Pursuit Immelman. Val shot up, switched to missiles and latched his targeting reticle onto the fighter.

But he found himself staring down the proverbial barrel. McDougall had come to a complete halt, and spun his fighter around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees to face Val. There was a loud beep as Val's computer notified him that he had just been vaped by the lieutenant's laser cannons.

"Scratch one squint," McDougall said into the open-frequency, marking it off as he would any other every-day kill. "You fought well, Ensign," he laughed, putting on a voice.

"Very nice, Team One Lead," Val grumbled with more than a hint of sarcasm injected into his voice, whilst he spun out of the barrel roll and levelled off into the pre-assigned escort position for the Striker. McDougall did the same after a short triple-victory roll, and with perfect timing the other squadrons met in a cross-shape above the capital ship, and looped up and away.

And with equally perfect timing the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Chimaera sheathed out from hyperspace and came to a halt right beside the Striker. He hoped that the audience had enjoyed the show, because it was a once-in-a-lifetime.