Action/Adventure, Week 3: Take These Wings and Learn to Fly
Title:Take These Wings and Learn to Fly
Author: Kristen999
Prompt:In My Youth (Or my younger days)
Word Count; 3600
Rating: K +
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Summary: John's heart has always been in the air. He'd just like to keep it in his head.
Notes: I'm not in the military. A lot of research was done for this but any mistakes are my own.
He slips on his shades, does a walk around checking for trouble spots. His hand caresses the smooth, cool skin, sending tingling sensations down his spine. No popped rivets, or tears in the wing casings. Propellers are fine; tires filled with air.
Dale is grinning behind him, allowing him this moment. The Cessna is silver with blue trim. It may be the Buick Regal of single engine aircraft, but she's his baby for the next hour. No need to own one and be more in Dad's debt.
John crawls up the wheel mount, unscrews the cap on top of each wing to check the fuel. He detaches the tether connecting his plane to the ground and scoots inside the left door, both kneecaps smashing the dashboard. He does up the seatbelt harness, arms through, snap high, snap low, keeping it snug.
The cacophony of the flight controls stare at him, and he turns the key to “on”, flipping the red switches into the up position. He pumps the primer a few times, the thing always reminding him of a pinball machine.
“Don't forget to yell clear,” Dale tells him.
John pokes his head out the window. “Clear!”
He cranks the key to 'start', warming up the engine, checking the fuel mixture. She purrs real nice, and his heart skips a beat.
The craft is in a straight line with the wind, helping her get ready for liftoff. John thinks of riding his bike, steering the plane with the rudder controls by his feet, sending her to that magical fifty-five knots. He pulls back on the controls, the Cessna climbs off the ground, and sweat pools down his back.
One day he'll own a flight jacket and a real pair of aviator glasses.
The ground doesn't want to let go, and the plane shakes, breaking away from gravity's hold.
“There you go, easy does it,” Dale tells him.
John pulls back more on the yoke, pushing past five hundred feet, and it’s almost time to execute that climbing turn. Gently, gently. Ten, twelve, then fifteen degrees.
One thousand feet and he feels so free, so released from everything around him. The wind's at his back, and he steadies her at eighty knots.
“Keep your eye on the sky.”
That's his instructor's code for use his eyes, always pay attention to visual flight rules. In other words, don't crash into any other planes.
All he does is fly a circuit, over and over again, but damn the view is breath taking.
“Master on... mags on both... carb heat hot... mixture rich... primer down and locked. Engine, oil, temp and pressure good,” Dale says without taking a breath. That’s the magic string of words to remember in order to fly.
John checks left to right on the dash, always making eye and fingertip contact.
His seventeenth birthday is in a week and that means he can try for his license. He has it all down pat: instruments, navigation, air safety, performance and planning.
John grips the controls tighter over the thought of flying solo, the adrenaline flooding his veins. The rush is a mix of every pleasurable sensation cascading all at once. It's better than sex.
He scans at the horizon, taking in the majestic sky before him.
This is who he is, what he always wants to be a part of.
Insufficient data. Please provide the needed information.
Every nerve feels on fire; synapses fire wildly. John gasps then his mind is plunged in further.
Texas is blazing hot and dry heat. This isn't cruising through Stanford to get his Math degree and graduating an officer.
The United States Air Force welcomes him with career paths and promises of skills that'll last a lifetime. Doesn't matter, he'll do whatever it takes to get into the sky. Twelve hour training days, fifty-five weeks of non-stop tests. If he closes his eyes, he can picture hundreds of instrument panels and name every last button. He masters safety rules, aces low-level navigation, and finally engages in flight formations.
It's days of mission planning and briefings with hours logged in the simulator that's a tease to the real thing. Then comes the endless exams. He never thought learning about the weather would become an integral part of his brain. Now he can walk outside, look up at the sky, and predict the next storm.
The T-37 is built after a Cessna design, the wide track and steerable nose wheel easy to handle.
His jet is insanely loud, the turbo engines releasing a high pitched shriek. The flight instructor calls it the “Screaming Orgasm.” Most airmen refer to it as the six-thousand pound dog-whistle.
John feels silly calling it by everyone's pet name, the Tweety bird, but it fits.
One day he'll be alone in the cockpit, not side by side with someone else, forced to share his space...his joy.
He's a fledgling aviator, learning about stall and yaw for spinning scenarios. He raises the nose of the aircraft, and just as it begins buffeting, John stomps on the rudder to get the spin to begin.
“Nice one, Sheppard.”
Normally it's, ‘don't be too cocky up here, airman,’ so he soaks up the praise like a sponge.
Today he's one with his squadron, doing bomb runs and experiencing the harmony of being a unit. Inches separate them all from life and death, wings so close to each other you could reach out and touch them.
This is more than soaring above the clouds and cutting his lifeline to the ground. Inside his chest pounds with the weight of the responsibility towards his fellow pilots and for the missions they train for. His bunk mates chatter about speed records and the buzz from altitudes. Flying is an addiction, a high he can't get enough of.
John dreams of humming metal under him, hears the roaring thrust of take-offs in his sleep. While others compare sexual conquests that come with being a pilot, he studies physics and advanced aeronautics.
During a night exercise one of the planes nudges too close in formation and is sent into a tail spin. The whole squadron performs evasive maneuvers one second and reforms the next.
That day in the mess hall their little group stays longer, trading stories about hijinks and their gutsiest moves in the air. The competition over the tallest-tale quiets to ruminations over girlfriends and family. John doesn't have much to contribute in way of those memories, instead reminisces about the day he entered ROTC.
It's odd to think of his dad's ranch as some picturesque postcard and the airfield of the Euro-Nato Pilot Program as home.
One week before he earns his silver wings, he sits at the other end of the tarmac, watching helicopters take off. He admires the intimacy of the rotors chopping the air. There's something raw and rough about them, the designs less fancy then fixed wings.
He had started school with the Tweet and ends it with the T-38 Talon. He enters and leaves a Second Lieutenant, his file filled with recommendations. John's not sure what he wants to do, knowing that faster is cooler. He thinks jets are the answer along with countries that take him further away from old memories.
Insufficient data. Pilot Sheppard is uncooperative. Require proper protocols.
John feels his body contort, his brain seizing with too much current.
His brain feels like it’s going to explode inside his helmet. Reaching speeds up to five hundred mph, he pulls close to eight Gs. The gravitational forces amount to having a twelve hundred pound cow sit on his chest. The next tight turn is four times the force of gravity, draining the blood from his head and upper body, darkening his vision and making him strain to keep his head up to watch the instrument readings.
The aviation physiology lab does a good job of making him puke up the eggs he had for breakfast. It's good at recreating hypoxia too.
In the real thing, the F-15 corkscrews through the atmosphere, dropping about ten-thousand feet per minute on a collision course with the ground below. This time he's pulling closer to nine Gs.
His pneumatic suit automatically fills with air around the abdomen, thighs and calves to slow the downward rush of blood. It eases when the plane rolls out. An hour of these acrobatics leaves him soaking with sweat.
In the mountains, he flies below a ridge, rolls up and over it, and slides down before turning right to fly up a valley. Like an infantryman hugging the ground, he uses the terrain to mask their plane from radar whose beams travel in a straight line. The evergreens go by in a blur.
“Return to twenty-thousand feet. You handled things well, Sheppard,” Major Strickland says.
He's in the front of the two-seater. John knows he's impressed his superior with his flying. He yearns to go on a real mission. The drills are becoming too routine.
Tomorrow it'll be another exercise over another mountain range. One day soon it won't be pretend.
Narrowing memory segment.
The KC-135 is an odd jet; the three-seater allows Logan, his electronic's warfare officer, to jam enemy radar. The former bomber has a lot of history, used for missions all over the globe. He's glad for the re-design, making it lighter and more efficient. The old version was even heavier than this eighty thousand pound marvel. He wonders how much the surveillance equipment weighs; the entire bomber compartment is filled with it.
Doing reconnaissance is vitally important work, so he's told. It keeps him stationed in Europe and allows him to see the world like the brochure said at the recruitment office. Not that he needed the glossy pictures.
An alarm blares; seems tickling the country's border has offended the wrong people.
“Damn it,” Captain Broskins swears over the radio.
John longs to be the leader and not the co-pilot. He craves the next rank so badly he can taste it. Sure he's ahead of most people. The rest of his classmates are still doing training exercises over Florida while he's doing crazy runs in planes that should be retired.
Today he might go down before he's ever commanded his very own bird. Broskins pulls some evasive maneuvers that shouldn't be possible. John does whatever he can to memorize them. He never knows when some of those idiotic moves will come in handy.
Narrowing memory segment further. Pilot Sheppard, do not resist.
There's a Su Flanker on his five o'clock. John turns his F-15 into the attack, knowing it'll mess up the bogie's timing and turn the tables.
Closing the range forces the Russian to switch from missiles to guns and gives John time to move in behind the target and use his sidewinder to take the enemy out. John thinks half a second, switches to afterburners, and gets away.
He's not in the mood to kill anyone this morning.
His buddies laugh, saying that becoming a full Lieutenant has made him soft. Colonel Davis has other choice words but is impressed with his maneuvers and for thinking of the overall mission.
John's just glad to be back inside a fighter, this time commanding in the front seat.
Acquire similar data.
Strapping in is pilot talk for all the crap one cocoons themselves in. Seat belt, shoulder harness, oxygen line, pneumatic line and parachute straps tie him firmly to his seat. It makes bailing out over the Balkans the scariest thing he's ever done.
John turns his head left and right, his nose dropping below the horizon. He eases back on the stick slightly, but there's no response, and his nose stays down. Then further down.
The dive steepens. His air speed is too high. He feeds more trim-tab and gets no response. Then he does it again. No effect. The plane's getting away from him, diving steeper and steeper, building up speed.
Centrifugal force pulls him out of his seat, and he realizes he's in the first arc of an outside loop.
The engine flames out to further make his day. He responds by shoving the throttle forward. The Machmeter and air speed needles are wheeling around together like crazy. John cuts power, drops the dive brakes and goes back to his emergency trim-tab system, flicking the switch with no effect.
Another glance at the instrument panel shows he's past the speed of sound -- and the needles are still winding up. Dive angle is at fifty degrees.
Oh God, he's vertical!
The loop's centrifugal force pins him up against the canopy, and a crimson haze begins to cloud his vision. It's the first stage of a red-out. There's one last hope -- keep pressure on the stick, full nose-up trim, and switch on the flying tail.
He flips the switch. Nothing.
Vision's going, and consciousness is next.
There is just enough time to jettison the plastic canopy and fire the explosive charge that will cannon him into space, seat and all.
Depressing the lever blows off the canopy and arms the explosive shell behind his seat. He draws his feet back into the stirrups. He reaches overhead, grasps both handles and pulls the protective curtain over his face. It triggers the firing pin.
Boom! Out he goes.
Then he and the seat tumble over and over.
At twenty-nine thousand feet, the chute blossoms, jerking the hell out of him.
The ground below is so far away that it doesn't seem to be coming up at all. It's quiet, the only sound a soft whistling of air in his parachute. And then he can't see the ground or the parachute or anything.
Adjusting memory search.
Getting shot down in enemy territory, surviving, and getting the hell away after four days, earns him a choice in jobs. The brass says stuff about aptitude and advanced skills. He thinks it has more to do with his SERE training and tells himself to take more evasion and escape classes when he can. John sports his new shiny Captain's stripes and has to get used to being saluted.
With the rank and medals comes flying aircraft that he's seen in the movies and others he's never allowed to talk about. Special operations missions are all cloak and dagger. John feels like a secret agent in between the mounds of extra paper work. He can't breathe a word to his colleagues or even his new love, who happens to a beautiful woman and not another aircraft.
His security clearance keeps going up and up, as do the flights over countries that the government will deny if he's ever shot down.
Anytime he sees a news report on television about the Predator or Global Hawk, he smiles knowingly.
John wears a space suit similar to NASA astronauts as he climbs into the newest classified spy plane. The craft climbs at an amazing rate, nearly ten thousand feet a minute. In four minutes, he's at forty thousand feet, higher than any commercial airplane. He goes up to more than seventy thousand feet, about fourteen miles above the Earth's surface.
It's an incredible sensation. As he looks out the windows, it feels like he's floating. In fact, it's like he's not even moving, despite the fact he's approaching six-hundred miles per hour.
With the canopy overhead it's like he's in space...almost.
Extracting. Focusing data stream.
Too many weeks away, a few more medals and accommodations, earns him a little down time. His new wife has nothing to do with it, John tells himself.
Being a flight instructor is fun for a little while. It makes him itch to be doing more than giving orders. Hanging around the base though brings him to an airfield where he watches all those helicopters take off.
Over the next few weeks, he hangs out more and more with the chopper pilots and is taken up in an Apache. The thrill of riding in the helo brings back the rush of when he first got his license. Flying it is electricity between his fingers; the yoke and controls feel more alive.
Choppers go into tighter spaces and are able to land where jets can't. They go into hot spots and war zones and are the keys to rescue operations. They pump his adrenaline like nothing ever has, something about them spell danger.
He pulls every favor and kisses enough ass to be allowed to train in them. In return, he'll fly more of the Air Force's experimental craft and take on a few extra combat training classes that most pilots don't.
Pilot Sheppard. Re-direct.
John's head feels like it’s on fire. He can't breath; he can't think. He fights, and the pain splits his skull open.
Pilot Sheppard must cooperate. Re-direct.
John missed Operation Desert Storm; he makes up for it in Afghanistan. It's mostly recon operations over deserts and mountains. This is his first real wartime tour of duty, and it’s pure hell. He tastes grit in everything he eats; his skin tans, burns, peels, and tans again.
When he sleeps, his nightmares are filled with the screams of men that his intelligence couldn't help because it was acted upon too late. The missions increase, multiplying the red tape that goes along with them. He feels like he's drowning in briefing evaluations and the pros and cons for executing every order.
Mitch tells him to stop doing so many volunteer search and rescue missions, but those actually save men instead of just providing intel for the another report.
Being promoted to Major after one of the better operations doesn't lift his spirits. The only time he feels enlightened is when he's in the air.
Nancy tells him she wants a divorce on his next leave. He returns to the desert where he stays up till dawn, drinking with Dex.
One day both his buddies are killed in Kabul, and John is all alone except for his next briefing.
John takes his Black Hawk over the Nile River and across tiny farms of the Fertile Crescent. His beast is a flying tank, able to destroy an armored vehicle, take out any slow speed target and still land on a dime. He climbs over the terrain, hovering over large rows of poppy fields. He wants to end this drug operation in the making, knowing he'll get chewed out for doing it during his next debriefing. He's been making a habit of getting on their bad side of late. There's a tingle in the back of his mind at the idea and feels his hands move over his targeting computer.
Adjusting memory search.
No, John thinks. No more.
Initializing memory search.
No, and John feels his vocal cords as he yells the word.
Pilot Sheppard, cooperate.
No!
“That's it Sheppard; fight it.”
“Keep focusing, Colonel.”
Must extract memory protocols.
His head implodes; every cell in his body is mapped out in bright-white pain.
“Enough. Stop screwing with my mind, you SOB!” he screams.
John feels his fingers dig into something hard; his legs twitch in his seat. He pries open his eyes; the sensation of being ripped apart slowly fades away. His vision blurs and adjusts, taking in two very anxious faces.
“What the hell?” he croaks.
“Once again, a machine decided it wanted something from that cracked out head of yours,” Rodney snaps from over a computer screen.
“It was some type of combat machine. We could not do anything to it until you broke the link it had with you,” Teyla says, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I wanted to shoot it but they wouldn’t let me,” Ronon adds.
“What?” John asks exasperated.
“From what the idiotic people who allowed you to sit inside the stupid thing told me, it wanted to learn more about your piloting experience,” Rodney says standing up. “Seems they used to have automated flying craft, but something zapped the mainframe and destroyed all of its flight data.”
This is all very confusing, and John feels sick to his stomach. “It wanted to learn to how to fly again?”
“More or less,” Rodney shrugs. “You were a wealth spring of information.”
“Carson is on his way to see you,” Teyla reassures him.
“Get me out of this thing,” John growls, holding up a hand.
Ronon helps him out of something that looks suspiciously like one of the flight simulators he trained in so many years ago.
“The Binski do not have any pilots left. This is what their ancestors used to train their remote flight computer,” Teyla explains.
“Any idea why it was so unfriendly?” John asks.
“With your personality, who knows. But I suspect a great desire to get reprogrammed,” Rodney says, waving his hands over the now quiet machine.
“Maybe you can fix it,” Teyla suggests to McKay. “Allow it to still use what it just learned.”
John's not sure about that. He rubs his hand through his hair at being forced to remember so much. His passion for flying is no secret, but they are his most precious and guarded memories. Man wasn't meant to take to the sky yet he’d found a way.
John is not sure if he ever wants to share what that truly means with anyone.
Author: Kristen999
Prompt:In My Youth (Or my younger days)
Word Count; 3600
Rating: K +
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Summary: John's heart has always been in the air. He'd just like to keep it in his head.
Notes: I'm not in the military. A lot of research was done for this but any mistakes are my own.
He slips on his shades, does a walk around checking for trouble spots. His hand caresses the smooth, cool skin, sending tingling sensations down his spine. No popped rivets, or tears in the wing casings. Propellers are fine; tires filled with air.
Dale is grinning behind him, allowing him this moment. The Cessna is silver with blue trim. It may be the Buick Regal of single engine aircraft, but she's his baby for the next hour. No need to own one and be more in Dad's debt.
John crawls up the wheel mount, unscrews the cap on top of each wing to check the fuel. He detaches the tether connecting his plane to the ground and scoots inside the left door, both kneecaps smashing the dashboard. He does up the seatbelt harness, arms through, snap high, snap low, keeping it snug.
The cacophony of the flight controls stare at him, and he turns the key to “on”, flipping the red switches into the up position. He pumps the primer a few times, the thing always reminding him of a pinball machine.
“Don't forget to yell clear,” Dale tells him.
John pokes his head out the window. “Clear!”
He cranks the key to 'start', warming up the engine, checking the fuel mixture. She purrs real nice, and his heart skips a beat.
The craft is in a straight line with the wind, helping her get ready for liftoff. John thinks of riding his bike, steering the plane with the rudder controls by his feet, sending her to that magical fifty-five knots. He pulls back on the controls, the Cessna climbs off the ground, and sweat pools down his back.
One day he'll own a flight jacket and a real pair of aviator glasses.
The ground doesn't want to let go, and the plane shakes, breaking away from gravity's hold.
“There you go, easy does it,” Dale tells him.
John pulls back more on the yoke, pushing past five hundred feet, and it’s almost time to execute that climbing turn. Gently, gently. Ten, twelve, then fifteen degrees.
One thousand feet and he feels so free, so released from everything around him. The wind's at his back, and he steadies her at eighty knots.
“Keep your eye on the sky.”
That's his instructor's code for use his eyes, always pay attention to visual flight rules. In other words, don't crash into any other planes.
All he does is fly a circuit, over and over again, but damn the view is breath taking.
“Master on... mags on both... carb heat hot... mixture rich... primer down and locked. Engine, oil, temp and pressure good,” Dale says without taking a breath. That’s the magic string of words to remember in order to fly.
John checks left to right on the dash, always making eye and fingertip contact.
His seventeenth birthday is in a week and that means he can try for his license. He has it all down pat: instruments, navigation, air safety, performance and planning.
John grips the controls tighter over the thought of flying solo, the adrenaline flooding his veins. The rush is a mix of every pleasurable sensation cascading all at once. It's better than sex.
He scans at the horizon, taking in the majestic sky before him.
This is who he is, what he always wants to be a part of.
Insufficient data. Please provide the needed information.
Every nerve feels on fire; synapses fire wildly. John gasps then his mind is plunged in further.
Texas is blazing hot and dry heat. This isn't cruising through Stanford to get his Math degree and graduating an officer.
The United States Air Force welcomes him with career paths and promises of skills that'll last a lifetime. Doesn't matter, he'll do whatever it takes to get into the sky. Twelve hour training days, fifty-five weeks of non-stop tests. If he closes his eyes, he can picture hundreds of instrument panels and name every last button. He masters safety rules, aces low-level navigation, and finally engages in flight formations.
It's days of mission planning and briefings with hours logged in the simulator that's a tease to the real thing. Then comes the endless exams. He never thought learning about the weather would become an integral part of his brain. Now he can walk outside, look up at the sky, and predict the next storm.
The T-37 is built after a Cessna design, the wide track and steerable nose wheel easy to handle.
His jet is insanely loud, the turbo engines releasing a high pitched shriek. The flight instructor calls it the “Screaming Orgasm.” Most airmen refer to it as the six-thousand pound dog-whistle.
John feels silly calling it by everyone's pet name, the Tweety bird, but it fits.
One day he'll be alone in the cockpit, not side by side with someone else, forced to share his space...his joy.
He's a fledgling aviator, learning about stall and yaw for spinning scenarios. He raises the nose of the aircraft, and just as it begins buffeting, John stomps on the rudder to get the spin to begin.
“Nice one, Sheppard.”
Normally it's, ‘don't be too cocky up here, airman,’ so he soaks up the praise like a sponge.
Today he's one with his squadron, doing bomb runs and experiencing the harmony of being a unit. Inches separate them all from life and death, wings so close to each other you could reach out and touch them.
This is more than soaring above the clouds and cutting his lifeline to the ground. Inside his chest pounds with the weight of the responsibility towards his fellow pilots and for the missions they train for. His bunk mates chatter about speed records and the buzz from altitudes. Flying is an addiction, a high he can't get enough of.
John dreams of humming metal under him, hears the roaring thrust of take-offs in his sleep. While others compare sexual conquests that come with being a pilot, he studies physics and advanced aeronautics.
During a night exercise one of the planes nudges too close in formation and is sent into a tail spin. The whole squadron performs evasive maneuvers one second and reforms the next.
That day in the mess hall their little group stays longer, trading stories about hijinks and their gutsiest moves in the air. The competition over the tallest-tale quiets to ruminations over girlfriends and family. John doesn't have much to contribute in way of those memories, instead reminisces about the day he entered ROTC.
It's odd to think of his dad's ranch as some picturesque postcard and the airfield of the Euro-Nato Pilot Program as home.
One week before he earns his silver wings, he sits at the other end of the tarmac, watching helicopters take off. He admires the intimacy of the rotors chopping the air. There's something raw and rough about them, the designs less fancy then fixed wings.
He had started school with the Tweet and ends it with the T-38 Talon. He enters and leaves a Second Lieutenant, his file filled with recommendations. John's not sure what he wants to do, knowing that faster is cooler. He thinks jets are the answer along with countries that take him further away from old memories.
Insufficient data. Pilot Sheppard is uncooperative. Require proper protocols.
John feels his body contort, his brain seizing with too much current.
His brain feels like it’s going to explode inside his helmet. Reaching speeds up to five hundred mph, he pulls close to eight Gs. The gravitational forces amount to having a twelve hundred pound cow sit on his chest. The next tight turn is four times the force of gravity, draining the blood from his head and upper body, darkening his vision and making him strain to keep his head up to watch the instrument readings.
The aviation physiology lab does a good job of making him puke up the eggs he had for breakfast. It's good at recreating hypoxia too.
In the real thing, the F-15 corkscrews through the atmosphere, dropping about ten-thousand feet per minute on a collision course with the ground below. This time he's pulling closer to nine Gs.
His pneumatic suit automatically fills with air around the abdomen, thighs and calves to slow the downward rush of blood. It eases when the plane rolls out. An hour of these acrobatics leaves him soaking with sweat.
In the mountains, he flies below a ridge, rolls up and over it, and slides down before turning right to fly up a valley. Like an infantryman hugging the ground, he uses the terrain to mask their plane from radar whose beams travel in a straight line. The evergreens go by in a blur.
“Return to twenty-thousand feet. You handled things well, Sheppard,” Major Strickland says.
He's in the front of the two-seater. John knows he's impressed his superior with his flying. He yearns to go on a real mission. The drills are becoming too routine.
Tomorrow it'll be another exercise over another mountain range. One day soon it won't be pretend.
Narrowing memory segment.
The KC-135 is an odd jet; the three-seater allows Logan, his electronic's warfare officer, to jam enemy radar. The former bomber has a lot of history, used for missions all over the globe. He's glad for the re-design, making it lighter and more efficient. The old version was even heavier than this eighty thousand pound marvel. He wonders how much the surveillance equipment weighs; the entire bomber compartment is filled with it.
Doing reconnaissance is vitally important work, so he's told. It keeps him stationed in Europe and allows him to see the world like the brochure said at the recruitment office. Not that he needed the glossy pictures.
An alarm blares; seems tickling the country's border has offended the wrong people.
“Damn it,” Captain Broskins swears over the radio.
John longs to be the leader and not the co-pilot. He craves the next rank so badly he can taste it. Sure he's ahead of most people. The rest of his classmates are still doing training exercises over Florida while he's doing crazy runs in planes that should be retired.
Today he might go down before he's ever commanded his very own bird. Broskins pulls some evasive maneuvers that shouldn't be possible. John does whatever he can to memorize them. He never knows when some of those idiotic moves will come in handy.
Narrowing memory segment further. Pilot Sheppard, do not resist.
There's a Su Flanker on his five o'clock. John turns his F-15 into the attack, knowing it'll mess up the bogie's timing and turn the tables.
Closing the range forces the Russian to switch from missiles to guns and gives John time to move in behind the target and use his sidewinder to take the enemy out. John thinks half a second, switches to afterburners, and gets away.
He's not in the mood to kill anyone this morning.
His buddies laugh, saying that becoming a full Lieutenant has made him soft. Colonel Davis has other choice words but is impressed with his maneuvers and for thinking of the overall mission.
John's just glad to be back inside a fighter, this time commanding in the front seat.
Acquire similar data.
Strapping in is pilot talk for all the crap one cocoons themselves in. Seat belt, shoulder harness, oxygen line, pneumatic line and parachute straps tie him firmly to his seat. It makes bailing out over the Balkans the scariest thing he's ever done.
John turns his head left and right, his nose dropping below the horizon. He eases back on the stick slightly, but there's no response, and his nose stays down. Then further down.
The dive steepens. His air speed is too high. He feeds more trim-tab and gets no response. Then he does it again. No effect. The plane's getting away from him, diving steeper and steeper, building up speed.
Centrifugal force pulls him out of his seat, and he realizes he's in the first arc of an outside loop.
The engine flames out to further make his day. He responds by shoving the throttle forward. The Machmeter and air speed needles are wheeling around together like crazy. John cuts power, drops the dive brakes and goes back to his emergency trim-tab system, flicking the switch with no effect.
Another glance at the instrument panel shows he's past the speed of sound -- and the needles are still winding up. Dive angle is at fifty degrees.
Oh God, he's vertical!
The loop's centrifugal force pins him up against the canopy, and a crimson haze begins to cloud his vision. It's the first stage of a red-out. There's one last hope -- keep pressure on the stick, full nose-up trim, and switch on the flying tail.
He flips the switch. Nothing.
Vision's going, and consciousness is next.
There is just enough time to jettison the plastic canopy and fire the explosive charge that will cannon him into space, seat and all.
Depressing the lever blows off the canopy and arms the explosive shell behind his seat. He draws his feet back into the stirrups. He reaches overhead, grasps both handles and pulls the protective curtain over his face. It triggers the firing pin.
Boom! Out he goes.
Then he and the seat tumble over and over.
At twenty-nine thousand feet, the chute blossoms, jerking the hell out of him.
The ground below is so far away that it doesn't seem to be coming up at all. It's quiet, the only sound a soft whistling of air in his parachute. And then he can't see the ground or the parachute or anything.
Adjusting memory search.
Getting shot down in enemy territory, surviving, and getting the hell away after four days, earns him a choice in jobs. The brass says stuff about aptitude and advanced skills. He thinks it has more to do with his SERE training and tells himself to take more evasion and escape classes when he can. John sports his new shiny Captain's stripes and has to get used to being saluted.
With the rank and medals comes flying aircraft that he's seen in the movies and others he's never allowed to talk about. Special operations missions are all cloak and dagger. John feels like a secret agent in between the mounds of extra paper work. He can't breathe a word to his colleagues or even his new love, who happens to a beautiful woman and not another aircraft.
His security clearance keeps going up and up, as do the flights over countries that the government will deny if he's ever shot down.
Anytime he sees a news report on television about the Predator or Global Hawk, he smiles knowingly.
John wears a space suit similar to NASA astronauts as he climbs into the newest classified spy plane. The craft climbs at an amazing rate, nearly ten thousand feet a minute. In four minutes, he's at forty thousand feet, higher than any commercial airplane. He goes up to more than seventy thousand feet, about fourteen miles above the Earth's surface.
It's an incredible sensation. As he looks out the windows, it feels like he's floating. In fact, it's like he's not even moving, despite the fact he's approaching six-hundred miles per hour.
With the canopy overhead it's like he's in space...almost.
Extracting. Focusing data stream.
Too many weeks away, a few more medals and accommodations, earns him a little down time. His new wife has nothing to do with it, John tells himself.
Being a flight instructor is fun for a little while. It makes him itch to be doing more than giving orders. Hanging around the base though brings him to an airfield where he watches all those helicopters take off.
Over the next few weeks, he hangs out more and more with the chopper pilots and is taken up in an Apache. The thrill of riding in the helo brings back the rush of when he first got his license. Flying it is electricity between his fingers; the yoke and controls feel more alive.
Choppers go into tighter spaces and are able to land where jets can't. They go into hot spots and war zones and are the keys to rescue operations. They pump his adrenaline like nothing ever has, something about them spell danger.
He pulls every favor and kisses enough ass to be allowed to train in them. In return, he'll fly more of the Air Force's experimental craft and take on a few extra combat training classes that most pilots don't.
Pilot Sheppard. Re-direct.
John's head feels like it’s on fire. He can't breath; he can't think. He fights, and the pain splits his skull open.
Pilot Sheppard must cooperate. Re-direct.
John missed Operation Desert Storm; he makes up for it in Afghanistan. It's mostly recon operations over deserts and mountains. This is his first real wartime tour of duty, and it’s pure hell. He tastes grit in everything he eats; his skin tans, burns, peels, and tans again.
When he sleeps, his nightmares are filled with the screams of men that his intelligence couldn't help because it was acted upon too late. The missions increase, multiplying the red tape that goes along with them. He feels like he's drowning in briefing evaluations and the pros and cons for executing every order.
Mitch tells him to stop doing so many volunteer search and rescue missions, but those actually save men instead of just providing intel for the another report.
Being promoted to Major after one of the better operations doesn't lift his spirits. The only time he feels enlightened is when he's in the air.
Nancy tells him she wants a divorce on his next leave. He returns to the desert where he stays up till dawn, drinking with Dex.
One day both his buddies are killed in Kabul, and John is all alone except for his next briefing.
John takes his Black Hawk over the Nile River and across tiny farms of the Fertile Crescent. His beast is a flying tank, able to destroy an armored vehicle, take out any slow speed target and still land on a dime. He climbs over the terrain, hovering over large rows of poppy fields. He wants to end this drug operation in the making, knowing he'll get chewed out for doing it during his next debriefing. He's been making a habit of getting on their bad side of late. There's a tingle in the back of his mind at the idea and feels his hands move over his targeting computer.
Adjusting memory search.
No, John thinks. No more.
Initializing memory search.
No, and John feels his vocal cords as he yells the word.
Pilot Sheppard, cooperate.
No!
“That's it Sheppard; fight it.”
“Keep focusing, Colonel.”
Must extract memory protocols.
His head implodes; every cell in his body is mapped out in bright-white pain.
“Enough. Stop screwing with my mind, you SOB!” he screams.
John feels his fingers dig into something hard; his legs twitch in his seat. He pries open his eyes; the sensation of being ripped apart slowly fades away. His vision blurs and adjusts, taking in two very anxious faces.
“What the hell?” he croaks.
“Once again, a machine decided it wanted something from that cracked out head of yours,” Rodney snaps from over a computer screen.
“It was some type of combat machine. We could not do anything to it until you broke the link it had with you,” Teyla says, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I wanted to shoot it but they wouldn’t let me,” Ronon adds.
“What?” John asks exasperated.
“From what the idiotic people who allowed you to sit inside the stupid thing told me, it wanted to learn more about your piloting experience,” Rodney says standing up. “Seems they used to have automated flying craft, but something zapped the mainframe and destroyed all of its flight data.”
This is all very confusing, and John feels sick to his stomach. “It wanted to learn to how to fly again?”
“More or less,” Rodney shrugs. “You were a wealth spring of information.”
“Carson is on his way to see you,” Teyla reassures him.
“Get me out of this thing,” John growls, holding up a hand.
Ronon helps him out of something that looks suspiciously like one of the flight simulators he trained in so many years ago.
“The Binski do not have any pilots left. This is what their ancestors used to train their remote flight computer,” Teyla explains.
“Any idea why it was so unfriendly?” John asks.
“With your personality, who knows. But I suspect a great desire to get reprogrammed,” Rodney says, waving his hands over the now quiet machine.
“Maybe you can fix it,” Teyla suggests to McKay. “Allow it to still use what it just learned.”
John's not sure about that. He rubs his hand through his hair at being forced to remember so much. His passion for flying is no secret, but they are his most precious and guarded memories. Man wasn't meant to take to the sky yet he’d found a way.
John is not sure if he ever wants to share what that truly means with anyone.