Before - Legends Silver Swarms of Ships *RELOADED* [Dear Diary 2014] Diary Complete!

Findswoman Actually it stands for "rest and recuperation" but in the sense of a fighter squadron, it may as well mean replenishment. Especially in the way squadrons in Star Wars seem to work, which is decidedly different than how their real-world counterparts operate. In real-life military and combat aviation, depending on the era, a squadron or equivalent force can have as many as twenty-five planes and thirty pilots attached to it, though only twelve to sixteen might participate in a given mission. This allows the unit as a whole to conduct day-to-day operations without wearing out its men and machines, and allows for a much easier replenishment of losses. The care and maintenance of aircraft too is much more complicated and organized on Planet Earth, such that during World War II at least, it took about ten men or more to keep one aircraft and one pilot flying at peak efficiency (the bigger and more complex the plane, the more people it takes to Keep Them Flying).

By contrast, your typical Star Wars squadron has twelve ships, twelve pilots and, if you're lucky, a handful of mechanics and techs, and their operational tempo is so sluggish it would cause any real-world fighter pilot to laugh aloud at how lazy they are. It's a gross oversimplification that's always kind of irked me given my interest in historical sources and aviation as a whole, but it would be too complicated and would take too much away from the story to try and change it within the context of this universe. I've tried to add a bit more depth than, say, what the X-wing series describes, but it's not easy to bring off in diary form (not to mention the Stackpole books tend to be pretty heavy on the histrionics).

 

Love his description of the new quarters and being with his swoop team and techies. And attachments during wartime? They can be formed

 

Pilot log, entry forty-three, 3958.8.28 BBY

Garrison duty is shaping up to be quite different from what I've experienced thus far in my career as a fighter pilot. It is most reminiscent of the months recently spent in training to get the squadron back up to spec, but this time we're equal partners in a much larger group defending an entire star system and the planets and people within. Though one or two of us may still tease them about their relative inexperience, the rookies we picked up are just as much a part of the team as anyone else. They hold up their end of our responsibilities, and do it well enough that I figure we'll get along just fine.

As for our duties, while they aren't exactly strenuous, they aren't completely boring either—this doesn't include what we on the swoop team get up to. The 18th has two primary missions here on Corulag: the first is to conduct patrols of the system by wing pairs, heading out on prearranged circuits and stopping off at various orbital facilities scattered throughout the area (an activity also conducted by the Navy fighter units here); the second is to help train potential Marines going through Basic at the Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot, specifically in how to liaise with air and spaceborne units within the military in the conduct and prosecution of combined-arms warfare. In theory, any Marine on the ground can call in an airstrike or orbital bombardment, though in practice that's usually done by the officers in command of whatever unit needs help. Every so often a flight will be pulled off of patrol duty for a couple of weeks to give the various classes of recruits a chance to learn what to do and expect when calling in a run. I'm told that this basically amounts to strafing targets on a gunnery range according to directions that may or may not be accurate for whatever needs to be hit, but that we're to do it anyway and let the scrub calling us in take the heat for karking things up (within reason, of course, as I'm guessing the DIs will tell the noob if the coordinates he calls in are outside of the range perimeter).

I'm actually looking forward to this, as it means I get to blow up piles of junk without anyone really giving a damn—except the poor sap on the other end of the channel if he's wrong.

So far I've done a few patrol circuits, and while they aren't filled with excitement, in this case I'm just happy to be cruising through space without the constant fear of getting vaped. This isn't to say I don't keep my eyes peeled and my head on a swivel, because as unlikely as it may seem, Darths Revan and Malak have demonstrated a capacity to hit whatever target they wish whenever it suits them best. I'll have to make sure this sentiment is kept up within the rest of the squadron, especially if we're here for a while and nothing is happening. Boredom can be lethal that way.

On the other hand, the swoop team has had a few off-duty runs on our new bikes, enjoying in particular the sensation of the wind in our hair (or lekku) and the chance to fly for the pure enjoyment of it. Though for the moment these are stock models, Master Sergeant Quimiln tells me that his people should have them ready for serious competition in time for the start of the swoop season in about six weeks' time. Though Coruscant is nearing the end of summer, Corulag is coming out of winter, and temperatures are already starting to rise, heralding plenty of good racing weather in the near future. Even without taking the trouble to block out the news reports it would be easy to forget, if only for a moment, that there was a pan-galactic war going on.

If the Sith keep us from showing off in front of the roaring crowds, I'm going to be very displeased. And I will happily take that anger out on a swarm or two of those evil little interceptors of theirs.


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Thumper09 windu4 Nyota's Heart earlybird-obi-wan TrakNar Findswoman

 

Pilot log, entry forty-four, 3958.9.17 BBY

So far, life on Corulag has proceeded without many hiccoughs or asteroids in the shipping lane.

Patrol duty continues to be the order of the day, though so far none of our flights have been called upon to help train recruits in the art of combined-arms warfare. A "leg" officer I shared a meal with at the commissary explained that at the time the 18th had arrived at its garrison station, the current crop of "maggots" was still quite new and wouldn't be ready for such helping hands for a few months yet. We ended up having a long conversation about how recruit training is actually conducted, and I learned a lot about what life for a ground-pounder is actually like. I asked him why the recruits were called that, and he explained. "One of the senior DIs started doing it ages ago, before either of us were born. The term kinda stuck, even after he was rotated over to Carida for a few years, and returned full force when the Gand was shipped back in."

"What's a Gand?" I had replied, at which the officer, a Duros only a couple of years older than me, embarked upon telling the tale of Tuffass. That discussion ended up going on for hours, and it was probably a good thing we were both off-duty that day—though truth be told, when we're not in our ships, doing sims, or in my team's case, on our swoops, pretty much most of the day for a fighter pilot is off-duty. Of course, Duros are famous for being able to spin a tale, and this guy lived up to his species' reputation in full.

I'm able to keep up a steady stream of correspondence both with my folks and with Teish'ala; with both of us stationed behind the lines, I even got the chance a couple of days ago to talk to her in full holo. She's doing well, holding up her responsibilities as a flight leader and making sure, as I have, that the new pilots assigned to her unit are meshing well with the rest of her squadron. When describing her recent experiences, she had appeared to be a bit put out by the fact that I now outranked her despite her having been in the service longer, so I brought it to her attention, stating my belief that it was really only a matter of what had transpired during the battle for Lannik. She seemed to accept that explanation, then informed me that she would be petitioning her CO to let her go to ISTS and become a Marine.

"Are you doing this to gain advancement?" I had asked pointedly. "Because if you are, you should know that we do tend to have a higher casualty rate."

"That's why you need someone you can trust to watch your back," she had replied, and I remember her lekku making an odd sort of gesture that I couldn't place. "Anyway, some of the noobs they've got coming in from flight school are pure vape-bait."

Something about her tone had had me on edge, but I let the sentiment go until something more concrete presented itself. Hopefully she doesn't do something stupid, such as pressuring her father or whomever in order to get into a unit stationed close by. I'd rather think she was doing this for good and solid reasons, but if not, I'm not sure how that would make me feel about her. So I had changed the subject and asked about how her family was doing, and the call proceeded along those lines for most of the duration. Before we disconnected, I appropriated a Jedi aphorism and asked that she be mindful of her feelings lest they get her into trouble. She wouldn't make any promises, but said that she would at least try, and we parted with mutual exchanges of love.

Meanwhile, our swoops are still being worked on, so the team and I haven't had the chance to fly them again. With less than three weeks left before the start of competition, the techs have to be feeling the pressure at least somewhat.


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Thumper09 windu4 Nyota's Heart earlybird-obi-wan TrakNar Findswoman

 

Nice to see him in contact with his friend Teish'ala

 

Pilot log, entry forty-five, 3958.10.9 BBY

The swoop season on Corulag is upon us, and my team and I have thoroughly familiarized ourselves with the modified swoops that Master Sergeant Quimiln's people crafted for us. A couple of weeks ago I was asked to put their initial effort to the test so that they could make any needed tweaks to the upgrades or iron out any problems. I had pronounced their efforts as very good, however the prototype was prone to developing a shimmy that became more and more manifest as speeds got higher. Their solution was the addition of a set of stabilizing fins jutting out from the aft-mounted engines as well as faring the nose slightly to reduce drag. That took another couple of days to finish working out, and I was once again asked to pass judgment, after which I announced that they had probably done everything possible to milk more speed and performance out of the base model—short of bringing an engineering team in from Aratech, that is. Demonstrating the diligence and forbearance that I had come to expect from military technicians and mechanics, our support team had ruthlessly documented their modification process so that outfitting the other three swoops took less than a week after that.

My team's reaction to seeing their new mounts ranged from excitement to incredulity, with Ensign Telmi raving at the mechanics for disrupting what she thought of the MSS-7x's "elegant lines" by adding the fins and faring. After holding time trials, the Falleen pilot seemed somewhat mollified at the enhanced performance, which admittedly is quite good and on par with any swoop I'd ridden back on Coruscant. They weren't galaxy-beaters, but they were never intended to be, and I was confident that we would acquit ourselves well. We've been practicing with what we've taken to calling "Scout Specials" whenever we haven't been occupied by other duties, both for fun and in preparation for the first of the Corulag circuit races, which will be held in the city of Tasjon in four days. As the season opener, this race is not without its fanfare and pageantry, and we've been asked to show up for the parade, which precedes the race, in our dress reds.

Yesterday I sent a short message regarding these developments to Teish'ala, expressing my excitement and wishing she was here to see it. This evening, however, I got back a rather indignant reply wherein she lamented the fact that apparently, the Marines don't recruit fighter pilots from the Navy (it seems we're the only martial commodity the Corps doesn't broker trades for). Her CO had apparently laughed at the request, wondering who had put that idea into her head in the first place—at least, that's how Teish'ala put it. I'll have to find some way to make this up to her, maybe send a note to her chain of command requesting some sort of partnership leave for her to come to Corulag.

Perhaps Commander Rall knows of a way to work this out. It would be incredible, if unlikely, if my girlfriend could be present when my team shows up for its first race.


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Thumper09 windu4 Nyota's Heart earlybird-obi-wan TrakNar Findswoman

 

Nice details about the swoops and I hope he finds a way to get Teish'ala

 

I can feel the racers; anticipation and I hope Teish'ala can attend.

 

Pilot log, entry forty-six, 3958.10.15 BBY

Wow, what a week it has been!

I had asked our Gotal squadron leader what could be done after writing my last log entry, and while her words were minimal it seemed apparent that she was at least interested in my plight as I explained everything to her (including the FUBAR with trying to get Teish'ala into ISTS). Her noncommittal-sounding "I shall see what can be done" might have been the end of it, but something in the way she returned my salute as I was (politely) dismissed told me that this wasn't just a get-out-of-my-hair kind of response. So, without putting all my shaaks in one corral, I continued in prepping for the Tasjon Open Classic along with the rest of the team.

The Bothan ensign has been throwing himself at the problem of coaxing more speed from our mounts, and with a couple of tweaks of our own we thought we'd got everything locked down tight. We were three days at it, up to our elbows in lubricants and components with spots and spatters all over our utilities, so that by the evening before the event each of us was spending much longer than might otherwise be considered necessary getting all the grime out of our skin and hair—or fur. The next day, yesterday, dressed in our freshly-pressed dress reds we left the facility in Curamelle via orbital shuttle to where the race was being held. Though living on Coruscant I was well used to seeing teeming masses of people gathered for any number of reasons, the sight of the crowd that had turned up for this event was somewhat unnerving. If the others were as nervous as I felt, they didn't show it, and I took that as a good sign: we're professionals, and pros don't wear their hearts on their sleeves.

The parade itself was standard fare, as pre-race festivities go, marked only by its scope: fully half the city, or numbers equal thereof, were seemingly packed into every window and balcony of the buildings that lined the skyways. Standing in the back of a large open-bed airtruck with our swoops in tow behind, we waved at the crowds, and trying not to appear to be doing so, I looked about for a certain green-skinned Twi'lek woman, but there were simply too many beings about to isolate anyone. As the parade reached the starting line, I refused to indulge in disappointment, instead shunting the emotions and jitters into my shields and mentally going over the race course and what the team had had to say about it.

[ATTACHMENT: tasjon_open_classic_helmcam0032qxj.holo]

All things considered, I think we did well for our first race. We timed in around the first third of entrants, Ensign Ros'lax outpaced the rest of us, managing to place in the Top Five out of thirty-five contestants. I wasn't far behind at seventh, with Ensign Telmi and Lieutenant Ven taking ninth and tenth positions. I was flush with pride during the post-race parties, and plenty of important people made it their business to introduce themselves to us and remark upon our team's performance. A representative from Aratech Corporation was even present, and I told her that I would most definitely forward her praise at the modifications that had been made to their MSS-7x swoops on to Master Sergeant Quimiln and his people. To put the icing on the cake that was the day, as the executive let us go I caught sight of a being in a Navy lieutenant's uniform, green lekku hanging freely down her back and twitching in a manner I instantly recognized.

As I caught her eye, I felt my face sliding neatly into an elated grin that was the mirror of the expression Teish'ala wore. "Not a bad race," she said silkily. "For a Marine, that is."

"I'm glad you could make it, Teish," I replied, blushing furiously. "I thought you were stationed on some dirtball out along the Hydian..."

She slid an arm around my waist and I felt the weight of one of her lekku as it draped upon my shoulder, which caused me to break out in hawkbumps. "We were," she explained, a hint of snark creeping into her voice. "But then we were packed aboard a passing cruiser and told that we had earned a rotation on a 'civilized' world. It was only after the squadron arrived that I was given an invitation to this little event."

The rest of the night passed in a blur of happy memories.

Though the 52nd Navy Starfighter Squadron is based in a satellite facility outside the Tasjon city limits, my girlfriend is only a mag-lev tram ride away rather than several hyperspace jumps. Though the war continues to rage, and closer to the heart of the Republic than either of us are comfortable with, we plan to make the most of the time the Force has granted us to be together. Her unit's day-to-day duties will be similar to the 18th's, so there's every chance that she and I could wind up sharing a patrol circuit. I know I've said that her presence could prove to be a distraction, but for now I'm just happy for the chance to be close by without the immediate threat of combat hanging over our heads.

No one ever said that military romance would be easy, after all.


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Thumper09 windu4 Nyota's Heart earlybird-obi-wan TrakNar Findswoman

 

What a terrific summation by Findswoman. I love the tone you have here for the race and the reuniting Pleased-as-punch but dignified about it.

 

I fully agree with Findswoman and Nyota's Heart. Great update

 

Well, suffice it to say that a single lieutenant commander—even one with a distinguished record—doesn't really have the pull necessary to move a whole squadron from one planet to another. Suggestions can be made, of course, ones that the chain of command might have had in mind already or else might consider reasonable enough, and it's entirely possible that said LTCMDR might know more about certain situations than Chak thinks she does...

Just FYI, at any rate. Military forces are funny that way.

 

Like I said, she could make suggestions, but ultimately the decision is made by the chain of command (and the Navy one at that), in this case probably a captain or rear admiral in a staff position. Also, Rall chose an XO back when the squadron was reactivated, picking Lieutenant Ettiau Pia for the position.

 

Pilot log, entry forty-seven, 3958.10.27 BBY

During the first few days of her stay on Corulag, Teish'ala and I have gone off together whenever the opportunity was available, not only to blow off steam in company, but to rekindle our romance, and I'm pleased to say that this has had the desired effect for both of us. While she still occasionally pokes fun at my ill-fated scheming, my failed effort to get her to join the Marines has become a happy little joke between us. Neither she nor I are keen to discuss the war, despite the fact that either of us could get called back to the front lines at the blink of an eye. The agreement is unspoken, but no words need be said; we both know that we are in dangerous occupations and that our enemy is relentless in pursuing its goals. So when the two of us have overlapping off-duty hours, one of us will take a mag-lev train to visit the other and spend time doing whatever occurs to us, whether it be clubbing, pub-crawling, walking through the park on a fine day, or sacking out because we're too exhausted from patrol and other duties to do much else.

If the war were to end tomorrow, we'd be first in line to get married. Then maybe we'll go visit Ryloth for a while.

In the wake of the season opener, the swoop team has been offered official sponsorship by Aratech Corporation as well as a few other local parts suppliers, which were forwarded to me but sent up the chain of command for approval. Fortunately, accepting or turning down such incentives is well above my pay grade, as all I had really wanted when forming this team was an excuse to go tearing up the sky in a swoop bike—the same goes for Telmi, Ros'lax and Ven as well. Master Sergeant Quimiln, despite our initial success and the praise from Aratech, wants to try and get some more tweaking done to our mounts, convinced as he is that there was no reason we couldn't have taken top positions. "We had been out of practice for a while, though," I told him when he brought the topic up prior to our first post-race practice. "So feel free to blame pilot error."

"Yeah, well, while you were busy sucking exhaust, I was watching the other swoops' performance profiles," he grumbled. "They're all using top-shelf accelerators and premium thrust components as well as custom control surfaces, stuff we just can't match with what we can beg, borrow or steal."

"I certainly hope you're not stealing parts, Master Sergeant," I replied mock-sternly.

"No sir, Lieutenant!" he protested, going on to elaborate just how lucky we were to even get into the top ten, and that without some serious upgrades, we may as well be taking APCs into the starting grid. I chose not to inform him of the potential sponsorships we had received, not wanting to get the Elomin mechanic's hopes up. Instead we continued running time trials on a variety of preplanned courses through various parts of Curamelle that were open to swoop traffic, usually drawing a fairly significant crowd of onlookers. Though your standard Marine swoop would be painted a drab color that would blend with the terrain of whatever world it saw daily use, ours were a stark white with red and black trim, not unlike standard-issue assault armor, with the Marine Corps Seal boldly painted on the engine pods in bloody crimson. We're getting better with each run, but overall I'm not too concerned with whether or not we win the league.

We're fighter pilots first, swoop jockeys second. With the Sith practically knocking on our doors, we cannot afford to let ourselves be caught up too deeply in what, ultimately, is just a morale-boosting exercise for the civilian population. Though I intend to give future races every bit of skill and ingenuity that I possess, if we are called upon to do battle, then that goes out the airlock in favor of vaping as many of the enemy as we can. The further away from the surface of Corulag the better, because the last thing I want to have to worry about is collateral damage.


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Thumper09 windu4 Nyota's Heart earlybird-obi-wan TrakNar Findswoman

 

Sweet! A very superb blend of relaxing, romancing, and working

 

He has some nice time I see but knows where his duties are

 

Pilot log, entry forty-eight, 3958.11.3 BBY

Happy twentieth lifeday to me...

Somehow, word of the date of this occasion has been leaked to the rest of the squadron—one of them even had the unmitigated gall to inform Teish'ala—so last night, Ettiau and everyone else bushwhacked me and dragged me to the best of the many cantinas that serviced the Marine Corps depot here in Curamelle. Even Commander Rall had joined in on the initial celebrations, during which the sole Corellian in the unit presented us with the ryshcate he had baked and led in the singing of some kid's ditty that was traditional for Humans living in the Five Worlds. After the last chorus, my girlfriend planted a big kiss right on my lips in front of the entire establishment; her lips were spicy on mine, with the glint in her eyes promising a special gift that she would keep for later. Flustered, I thanked the assembled crowd and proceeded to cut the cake.

It had tasted wonderful, and went well with the Whyren's Reserve that was liberally poured all around; even as we all gleefully toasted my continued health and existence, I knew this little shindig would be running up quite the tab. I didn't mind at all, though, as there had been little incentive to significantly dip into my pay and savings since I'd been transferred into the 18th. The carousing went on well past midnight, and thankfully we were all able to make it back to the barracks without the military police having to escort us. The fact that the squadron was willing to go all-out like this proved, at least in my estimation, that we had since come together as a unit and were as ready to face the enemy as we were ever going to get. Besotted with alcohol as I was after the gathering broke up, I was able to reflect that things couldn't get much better. Teish'ala wasn't much better off, so we agreed to have that rendezvous the next night...tonight.

Well, after nursing a two-alarm hangover this morning, I met with the swoop team and our mechanics to finalize a few things before the next race in the season, taking place in three days here in the capital. The master sergeant thinks he's got an angle on a quartet of enhanced accelerators, assuring me that the acquisition was completely above-board. There was still no word from the chain of command about those sponsorships, so in absence of any such operation in place I told him to go ahead with the purchase and installation, but to make it snappy so we'd have a chance to get used to what they'd do to our mounts before the actual race. He seemed to understand, promising that he wouldn't have any undocumented surprises for us to deal with.

After returning to my quarters, I found a text transmission from the Recruit Training Depot's commanding officer had been routed to my datapad. It informed me that my flight had been selected to conduct training exercises with the various classes of recruits now going through boot camp. They won't start until next week, however, so thankfully there will be no scheduling conflicts. In the meantime, I have a date to freshen up for.

All in all, this has definitely been one of my better lifedays.


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Thumper09 windu4 Nyota's Heart earlybird-obi-wan TrakNar Findswoman