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Flight 19

by Goldenarbiter

Chapter 15: Chapter 11: The Road Less Traveled

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Chapter 11: The Road Less Traveled

The campfire was being a pain in the ass, Taylor decided.

The lieutenant had been feeding the flames periodically through his watch, and it seemed to him that he’d spent less time guarding the camp itself and more time trying to find some extra wood to put on the fire. The group had pretty well scattered the original fire when they’d thwarted the Dust Devil attack, and Taylor kept finding himself wandering further and further toward the encircling dark in order to find sticks and branches large enough to keep the fire going.

Midnight Arrow, his partner for this shift, sat perched on the wing of FT-117, her ears flicking lazily at each sound that came out of the darkness. Most of the sounds were the snores of her companions as they slept, however, and very little drew her attention away from the small book she held balanced on her forehooves. Periodically, the pegasus would stop and glance around for a moment, and then bent back to her work, her mouth gripping a pencil that she scribbled busily with. She paused often, regarding her work with a frown, and on several occasions she struck out a word or two, uttering a soft curse that was muffled by the need to keep the writing stylus from tumbling away.

She raised her head, ears perking, as Taylor returned with another meagre load of branches and twigs. “Slim pickings?”

“I’m not goin’ any further out there to find out.” The pilot dumped the wood onto the fire, watching the flames lick up hungrily. “Those damn things might still be out there, and I already got a calling card.” He reached up and touched his cheek, wincing.

Midnight tucked the pencil into the spine of the booklet before her and closed it, putting the slim volume into a pocket of her backpack where it lay beside her on the wing. “Did you even clean that?”

Taylor touched the wound again gingerly. “No... I didn’t think about it, really.”

The pegasus sighed in exasperation and stood up. “You really do need a foalsitter, don’t you?” She trotted carefully across the wing to where it met the body of the aircraft and reared up, placing her forehooves on the rim and peering inside. “Don’t you have that medicine with you still? The stuff you let Fluttershy use on the bear?”

Taylor blinked and frowned. “That was Stivers’ kit. I think we left it behind at the time. There should be another one in my plane, though. Hold on, I’ll get it.”

“It’s the boxy-bag thingy with the red cross on it, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s secured to the side of the plane with a couple of latches.” Taylor walked over to the side of FT-28 and grabbed hold of the wing edge. “I can get it.”

“Oh, sit down.” The pegasus tucked her head inside the open crew compartment of the aircraft, her wings flicking out for balance as she leaned over, nearly halfway into the cockpit. Taylor heard a couple of muffled snapping sounds, and the mare drew back, the bag gripped between her teeth. “I faid ffit down. I got it.”

The lieutenant blinked in surprise, then hoisted himself up on the edge of the wing, his legs dangling down. “How the hell did you do that without any fingers?”

Midnight dropped the bag onto the wing and looked at him primly. “The same way I write, eat, and bite people who don’t listen to what they’re told. Now hold still.” She gripped the top of the bag and undid the clasps with two deft flicks of her head and stuck her nose inside, rummaging busily. “Ahh, here we go.” She reappeared, holding a small bottle of alcohol and tossed it toward him. “Wipe it down, flycolt.”

Taylor caught the bottle awkwardly, juggling it for a moment and almost dropping it before he had it secure. “You never cease to amaze me, you know that?”

“Oh, I bet you tell that to all the mares.” She dove into the bag again and emerged with a packed of gauze swabs. “Now clean it out. I don’t know what else those things were made of, but sand and dust in a wound is bad enough.”

“Aye-aye, ma’am.” Taylor took the gauze from her and soaked down one of the pads, the acrid smell of the alcohol rising up and promising a great deal of discomfort in short order. “I hate the smell of this shit. It reminds me of Doc Wilson when I was a kid.” Taylor lifted the pad to his cheek and patted it gingerly against the claw marks, emitting a hiss of pain.

“Easy, don’t scrub at it.” Midnight peered at him as the pilot slowly wiped down his cheek and ear, the wounds beginning to bleed slowly as they became clean. “I think you’re going to have a scar there.”

“I’ll take it. I thought I’d lost my goddamn ear when that thing grabbed me.” He held the gauze pad firmly to his face, blotting the wound and checking it now and again as the blood clotted more. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” The pegasus leaned over and dragged the medical pouch over to him. “Put some antibiotic on it, too. I can smell it in there, but I don’t know which tube it’s in.” She made a face. “I can’t read your writing.”

“Don’t feel bad.” Taylor rummaged in the pouch, locating the antibiotic cream by feel and pulling it out. “Most of the words on here I can’t even pronounce. Too many syllables.” He daubed some of the cream into the scratches on his cheek and ear, and then began taping a clean pad over the wounds. “Takes somebody smart to figure out that stuff.”

Midnight cocked her head at an angle and peered at him for a moment, the firelight flickering across her features. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Belittle yourself all the time.” She frowned severely. “You’re not an idiot. You can clearly fly better than almost anypony I’ve seen so far, except for Miss Rainbow Dash, perhaps. You’re an officer, which also isn’t something you get to be by being stupid.”

Taylor snorted. “You haven’t met some of the guys I went to OCS with, then.”

Midnight snorted back at him, stamping a forehoof on the wing. The sharp sound reverberated through the metal framework with a hollow ring. “There you go again. Why—”

A groan cut across the night air and both of them froze in place. Taylor glanced around quickly and saw Midnight’s ears flicking rapidly, almost like miniature radar dishes. “What the heck was that?” he asked in a whisper.

“It came from one of your men,” she whispered back. “I don’t know who it was.”

The sound came again, and both of them saw Gallivan move slightly, the sergeant rolling over and laying flat against the sand. One of his arms twitched, and the sleeping crewman almost appeared to be waving at someone.

“Don’ know,” he muttered. “Already asked me, don’ know.”

Taylor glanced at Midnight, and the two shared a look of relief. “Just dreams, I guess.” The lieutenant slid down off of the edge of the wing and moved toward the sleeping Marine. “I’ll take care of it.” He stepped around the others and made his way over to Gallivan, who was now moaning and clutching a fistful of sand. “Gallivan?”

The sleeping Marine uttered something unintelligible, then coughed and said clearly, “Don’t want your fucking smokes.”

Taylor frowned and knelt beside him. “Well, that’s not nice, after all I did to give ‘em to you.” He reached out and shook the sergeant’s shoulder gently. “C’mon buddy, wake up.”

Gallivan’s eyes snapped open immediately, jerking his head up and holding Taylor in a wide-eyed gaze. “No! No more!” he shrieked, and kicked out. His boots connected with Taylor’s shoulder, sending the startled pilot sprawling. “I told you I don’t know, why do you keep ASKING me?”

The entire group was immediately awake, heads turning rapidly as they tried to perceive the threat. Stivers flung the rough blanket that had covered him aside, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he focused on the scene. “Oh, shit,” he said in a low voice, and then, louder: “Taylor, just back away from him slow.”

Taylor complied, scuttling backward several feet until he sat next to Stivers. “He was dreaming, and I tried to wake him up—”

“Yeah, I know.” Stivers walked forward a pace, and then crouched, holding eye contact with Gallivan. “Bob, it’s me, Captain Stivers. You’re fine, okay?”

Gallivan had pushed himself away and was staring at him from where he knelt near the fire, his gaze flicking from one of them to the next. “What?”

“We’re in the desert, remember? Where we landed?” Stivers voice was low, almost as if talking to a child. “You’re with Flight 19. It’s me, Stivers. Gruebel’s here, and Lieutenant Taylor. It’s nighttime, and we were all sleeping.” He paused for a moment. “You were dreaming, weren’t you?”

“I...” Gallivan trailed off, his gaze fixing on Shining Star for a moment. The sergeant swallowed heavily. “Ponies. Right. We’re with the ponies...” The last part of his sentence trailing off as he sighed.

“Roger on that, sergeant.” Stivers’ voice firmed up now. “You were dreaming, is all. And whatever it was, it was just a dream, right?”

“A dream.” Gallivan’s voice was something closer to normal, now. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to wake you up, sir.”

“It’s fine, sergeant.” Stivers patted Taylor on the shoulder and stood up. “You want to stay up for a bit? Maybe spell Taylor on watch?”

“Sure thing, if you want, sergeant.” Taylor mimed yawning and stood up as well. “I could use a little extra shut-eye before we leave.”

Gallivan rubbed both hands over his own face and then nodded without looking at either of them. “Yeah, Lieutenant, That would probably be best. I think I’m done for the night, anyway.” He glanced backward at Midnight.

“I don’t mind either, not that anypony asked.” Midnight said, affecting an aggrieved expression. “Taylor was beginning to fall asleep on his feet anyway. I’d appreciate the company, sergeant.”

“Oh, sorry Ma’am.” Gallivan said, hand scratching his head. “Just...” he trailed off.

Golden Sword gave the pilot a long, thoughtful look, and then pointedly lay back down where he had been, clearly preparing to go back to sleep. The others took the hint and went back to their places without saying a word, although one or two of the ponies gave the Marine a cautious glance. Only Gruebel remained sitting up, the private rummaging through his pack as if looking for something while his eyes stayed fixed on his friend.

Stivers walked over to Gallivan and gripped the Marine’s shoulder gently. “Bob,” he said in a low voice, “if you need anything, wake me up. Okay?”

“Yes sir.” Gallivan said, not really putting any heart into it.

As the other officers moved off and settled down, Midnight Arrow jumped down from the wing of the aircraft where she had been sitting and walked over to stand next to Gallivan. With him sitting down and her standing, the two were at equal eye level, and she met his gaze evenly as she drew near. “That looked like quite the nightmare,” Midnight said quietly. “Want to talk about it? Sometimes it helps. To shake it off, I mean.”

The Marine looked at her for a moment and then shook his head. “Not really,” he replied. “Just a bad dream is all. I’ve got a hold on it now.”

“Okay,” Midnight said. The rejection gave her an odd twinge, and she reminded herself not to take it personally. She and the sergeant didn’t know each other that well, and it might just be something sensitive; some things you didn’t just open up about to anypony who came along. “There’s still a few hours until sunrise. If you change your mind, I’ll be here.” She crouched and propelled herself into the air with one quick movement of her wings, arcing gracefully over Star and Gruebel to land lightly onto the wing of the 117 aircraft once more.

“Thanks, ma’am,” Gallivan said after a moment, “but I got this. Just need...” He trailed off again, before letting out a sigh of frustration.

Midnight’s ears swiveled again as they picked up the sound of a sniffle from the sergeant’s direction. Pretending not to notice, she dug the slim volume she had been writing in earlier out of her pack and kept her gaze fixed on it, flipping through the mostly blank pages as if searching for something. She heard him fling his blanket off and walk away, and she looked up in time to see him walk past and around the rear of the airplane, his face in his hands. She watched his dim outline for a long time, noting the quivering in his shoulders that took a long time to still. Whatever he was, whatever he’d done, he was part of her group now, and that made him her responsibility, as far as Midnight was concerned. Whatever it was that was poisoning his soul, he seemed determined to deal with it the hard way. She hoped that sooner or later, he’d realize he didn’t have to do it alone.

“Take your time,” she whispered, and put the book away again. Her blue eyes gleamed in the firelight as she stood watch over the group, the stars circling and dancing the last dances of the night away as the moon rode down toward the western horizon.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shining Star groaned as he stretched out, his stiff limbs complaining audibly as his joints popped one by one. “I’ve got sore places where I didn’t think I had places,” he grumbled.

“Ehh, suck it up, Marine.” Thompson rubbed sleep from his eyes, peering owlishly at the pegasus beside him. The sky in the east was slowly brightening, and in the grey light of dawn each of the companions could now see clearly the scrapes, bruises and cuts that most of them bore. “You’re an original leatherneck, and we don’t complain about chickenshit like that.”

“The hell we don’t.” Gruebel had stood up and twisted his torso to one side, wincing. “Oh Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,” he said in a faux Irish brogue. “Me back is in sorry shape, lads.” Sitting back down, he began to unbutton his shirt.

“What’s a leatherneck?” Star asked.

“It’s a nickname for a Marine,” Stivers said. “A good nickname, fine and proud, and full of tradition.” The captain was sitting up, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the last of the night’s chill. “Any other nicknames you might hear about are nothing but scandalous lies.”

Taylor, who was busily stirring something in a pot he had hung over the fire, shot Stivers a dirty look. “Hey, I didn’t say anything. Besides, being the only Navy representative here, I’m not about to take on four to one odds.”

“Nine to one,” Stivers said agreeably. “The ponies are all ground-pounders like us, Lieutenant, even if they have wings. You’re surrounded.”

Taylor made a rude noise. “In that case, I refuse to get in a name-calling contest.” He assumed a dignified pose. “I have my personal honor and integrity to uphold.”

Midnight, who was now sprawled out on her side on the wing of the aircraft where she had spent most of the night, snickered. “Oh, this ought to be good.”

“Ouch. That explains that other wound that’s been bothering me all night.” Taylor peeked into the pot and stirred it again. “It was acting up off and on.”

Her ears perked up and she glanced at the lieutenant with some concern. “The cuts on your face?”

“No, the pain in my ass.”

Midnight’s jaw dropped as the others burst out laughing, and then she gave in with a chuckle, conceding the point to the pilot. “You’d better be as good a cook as you are a pilot, mister. Otherwise you’re going to pay for that one later.”

“Nothing like a little motivation to get the blood flowin—” Taylor cut himself off with a hiss as Gruebel removed his shirt. “Christ, private, what the hell hit you?”

“About three of those little demon bastards, I think, all in the same place.” Grubel had one arm thrown up in the air and was peering at his ribs. Starting from his midsection and wrapping around his right side to his back was a veritable sunset of bruises, ranging from deep purple to a vague yellow around some of the edges. “Does it look as bad as it feels?”

“No cuts or anything. I’d try sleeping on the other side for a bit though, if I were you,” Star said respectfully. Spying an odd mark on Gruebel’s bicep, he opened his eyes wide. “Hey, you guys have cutie marks, too!”

Gruebel froze in place, his arm still pointing to the sky. “We have what?

Star pointed to the globe and anchor emblem on Gruebel’s upper arm. “A cutie mark. Like mine, see?” He turned and showed his flank. Without the armor covering it, the silvery multipointed star on his haunch was clearly visible. “It shows who you really are, what your talent is, or what kind of pony you are inside.”

Gruebel’s expression suggested the Marine had bitten into a particularly sour lemon. “This,” he said carefully, “is not a ‘cutie mark.’ This is a tattoo. Acquired at great expense from a very large mamasan in a very small tattoo parlor in Manila.”

“Well, what does it mean?”

“It means,” Gruebel said, still using the same patient tone, as if instructing a child, “that I am a United States Marine.”

“Well, aren’t you? That’s what cutie marks are all about.” Star frowned. “Why did you have to pay for it, though? They’re just supposed to appear when you discover who you are.”

“The tattoo did appear.” Gruebel lowered his arm, the mark in question rippling as the muscle underneath it flexed. “When I paid for it. At the tattoo parlor.”

Shining Star was blessed with an innate sense of impending danger. Something in the Marine’s tone was making that particular sense twitch alarmingly, and the pegasus decided to change the subject. He looked at the bruises on Gruebel’s torso, then stretched his wings gingerly and winced in commiseration. “Anyway, I’m glad I’m flying on your wing today and not on my own.”

“I told ya,” Thompson broke in again, “you gotta suck it up. No complaining in the ranks.”

“Howie, shut the fuck up.” Gallivan ambled around from the nose of the airplane nearest them, busily tucking his shirt in. “Bein’ that you got toasted like a marshmallow when we first got here and Star almost ended up the same way last night, you might wanna have a little sympathy for the kid.” The sergeant’s voice sounded completely normal, all traces of the hysteria he had shown the night before absent.

Thompson held up his hands. “Just jokin’, Bob.” He grinned again. “He’s still an original leatherneck, though.”

Star frowned, his brow furrowing. “How am I original?”

“Thompson’s making a very poor joke that definitely has no place at breakfast.” Stivers glanced over at Taylor. “Speaking of which, how’s that coming?”

“Almost done, dear. Don’t get impatient. It took me ten minutes to rig this kit up so I could hang the pot over the fire.” Taylor made a face. “The instructions didn’t come written in English.”

Shadow stood nearby, busily buffing the scratches out of his armour. “They teach us how to set it up in basic training. It doesn’t come with instructions.”

“That was the point.” Taylor looked at the pony’s blank expression and sighed. “Nevermind. Break out your mess gear, I’m about done here.” He stirred the contents of the pot once more, and then ladled a spoonful out onto the plate he held in his other hand. “Dig in, folks.”

Gruebel looked at the plate in dismay. “Oatmeal. Plain oatmeal. Oh, my sainted aunt.”

“Sorry, we were all out of bacon and eggs, and the hash browns are on backorder from the PX.” Taylor’s jaw was grimly set as he began spooning the food into his mouth. Chewing twice, he stopped with a grimace. “Oh, me.”

Golden Sword, who had been lying under his own blanket, watching the proceedings with only one eye open, grunted. Without a word, the pegasus captain shook off his blanket and got up. Dipping his head, he flipped open one of the pouches on his saddlepack and began digging through it. Nosing about within for a moment, he straightened up, holding a small box gripped in his teeth. The others watched as he walked slowly over to the pot and began shaking the box vigorously. A fine dark haze sifted out of the top of the box and settled into the pot.

Up on the wing of the Avenger, Midnight Arrow’s nostrils flared. “Oooh, is that the stuff Pinkie Pie gave you?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Sword peered at the oatmeal, still only with one eye open. Apparently satisfied with the results, he returned the box to his pack carefully and picked up his plate. “S’better.”

Taylor stared suspiciously at the captain as he stirred the pot several times before spooning out a helping for himself, and then looked up at Midnight. “What was that?”

Gallivan bent over the pot and sniffed, then grinned. “Brown sugar. I’ll be damned.”

Midnight’s eyes were twinkling with suppressed mirth as she leapt delicately off the wing of the aircraft and headed over to her own pack to get her plate. “If you’d waited another moment, Taylor, you’d be enjoying your breakfast a lot more, I think. Nopony eats plain oatmeal, not unless they want to.”

Taylor grimaced and glanced back over at Sword. The pony was eyeing him steadily, and had managed to get both eyes open by this point. “Help yourself, Lieutenant,” he said with a soft chuckle. “I’ve got several boxes in my pack, courtesy of Miss Pinkie.”

“Thanks.” Taylor availed himself of the sweet seasoning, and then sat back down next to Midnight, who was clearly enjoying her breakfast. “You knew?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Gotcha.”

“Like I said before, you fight dirty, lady.” Taylor spooned in another mouthful of oatmeal and closed his eyes, the taste much improved as it exploded over his tongue. “One day though, I’m gonna win. You know that, right?”

She chewed thoughtfully for a moment and swallowed. “No, I don’t think so. But it’s fun to see you try.”

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The takeoff itself was uneventful, both planes lumbering down the salt flat and filling the desert air with the roar of their radial engines as they took to the skies again. Taylor banked gently, glancing out the window at the open expanse below them as he turned to the south again, keeping the rising sun on his left wing and maintaining course as best he could without an operable compass. He had dutifully marked the area with an “x” on the rough map Luna had provided them, but without precise navigation markers, it was an estimate at best guess.

Thompson’s voice sounded abruptly from the rear of the cockpit. “Hey, Lieutenant, you sure this is a good idea?”

“What do you mean?” Taylor glanced reflexively out the left side at where Sword stood once again on his port wing. The pony’s ears were laid back in protest against the engine noise, but despite this the pegasus appeared to be trying to go back to sleep. Damn, wish I could do that.

“I mean, sir, we kinda got lucky, didn’t we? Finding a place to land and all, way the hell out here?”

“Yeah, I guess, but there’s usually spots like this here and there in most deserts.” Taylor continued to hold the aircraft on course as it climbed.

“But what about later?” A nervous tone was creeping into Thompson’s voice. “Sir, I...I don’t like to mention it in front of the other guys, but I... well, I really would rather not end up in another burning wreck. I feel like I used up most of my luck coming back from that.”

Taylor sighed quietly. “Howie, look. We’ve got to fly. Going back is no good. We have to go forward, and there’s no way in hell we can cross this desert on foot. If there’s anyplace we find that will handle this plane, I can land it. I’m not a flight instructor for nothing.”

“I know, sir. I mean, I trust you, that’s not the point.” A low groan floated up from where Thompson sat in the aft turret. “I just wanna go home, sir, you know? This place is nice and all, but it ain’t home.

“That’s why we have to keep on going, Sergeant.” Taylor flexed his hand around the control yoke, feeling the ridged grip under his fingers. “I swear to you, wherever I go, I’m not leaving you behind, okay? Whatever happens, we’re both in it together, for keeps.” He leveled the aircraft out slowly. “You still got a date out there somewhere waiting for you. You might be a little late, but I promise I’ll explain everything to her when we get back.”

He received a snorting chuckle in response. “Okay, you got a deal, sir. That explanation I gotta be there to see.”

A companionable silence descended as Taylor settled into the familiar routine of a long, cross-country flight. He couldn’t help himself from glancing reflexively at his instruments over and over again every few seconds; the habit was one of a good pilot and long ingrained in him. With most of the instruments destroyed, however, and the few remaining ones providing little useful information, he found himself spending more and more time just looking out over the terrain passing several thousand feet below his aircraft.

The view was tremendous. The desert spread out below them in all its magnificent desolation; the particular path they were winging along through the air offered them the highlights of the desert at its most spectacular. Off to their left, the dunes still spread out, marching to the east and towards the horizon, with only a random rock outcropping here and there to mar its uniform appearance. The sinuous curves of the dunes themselves curled about here and there, formed by the action of the tireless wind as it swept across the landscape. Along their current path, however, the ground offered up a more interesting panorama. This area was more geologically active in the recent past; large groups of rock thrust themselves up from the desert floor, providing windbreaks that allowed plant life to spring up and not just survive, but thrive. The scene reminded Taylor of something from the American southwest, with scrub brush, cacti and the occasional gnarled tree sprouting up defiantly from the parched soil. The growth continued unchecked to his right, off to the west, and a careful eye could discern a faint glimmer there on the horizon, a thin arcing line of blue just slightly off-color from the sky where it met the horizon. The map Luna had given them held true there as well, then; it showed a great sea in that direction, one which apparently bordered the entire continent, at least as far as the map showed.

“I think we’re approaching the first of the mountains now.” Taylor called over his radio. “Just a few more hours now.”

“You think so?” Stivers replied. “Cause I can’t see shit.”

“Clearly you need to get glasses then Captain.” Taylor replied, mirth evident in his voice.

The further the group progressed, the more vivid the vegetation became. Soon enough, the desert was just an afterthought and the stiflingly hot air was reduced to a warm simmer. The mountains in the distance were slowly growing larger as the the planes puttered ever forward. From his vantage point, Taylor could make out where the snow caps were on the smaller of the mountains, while the remainder of the behemoth chunks of rock jutted through the massive blanket of clouds above the mountainous area. The sun was slowly reaching towards the horizon as Taylor took in the imposing atmosphere of the upcoming terrain.

Violent shaking from his aircraft brought Taylor out of his sight seeing as he again looked down to his useless gauges, noting that one of the few that did still work, the gas, was dropping rapidly. Glancing to his left and right, he saw the wing mounted ponies giving him worried glances.

“Taylor.” Stivers intoned over the radio. “I think you have a bit of a problem...”

“You don’t say Captain?” Taylor said sarcastically. “You can’t happen to see the problem from there do you?”

Just as suddenly as it started, the shaking stopped, and the aircraft started pulling the right as the right wing dipped. As Taylor cursed under his breath, Stivers’ voice came back over the radio, his panic evident over the static interference.

“One of your gas tanks just fell off!”

Next Chapter: Chapter 12: Eviction Notice Estimated time remaining: 8 Hours, 35 Minutes
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