Post 264 - Forging the Wing
Posted on Tue May 13th, 2025 @ 4:05pm by Lieutenant Commander Michael McMahon & Lieutenant Paul Eschenauer & Lieutenant Peter McMahon & Lieutenant JG Robert McMahon & Ensign Joseph McMahon
825 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission: Secrets
The fighter bays of Starbase Obsidian echoed with the whirring sounds of diagnostic scans, tool kits, and occasional bursts of comm chatter. What had once been a scattered collection of fighters—cobbled together from damaged ships, outposts, and whatever was still spaceworthy—was now the fragile backbone of a fledgling starfighter wing. And it was up to Group Commander Evelyn Callister to make it functional.
She stood at the center of Hangar Bay Two, arms crossed, eyes scanning the rows of mismatched vessels. Peregrines with patched hulls, Valkyries missing panels, even a few older Falcon-class interceptors—barely updated since the Dominion War. They were hers now. And she needed to weld them into a fighting force.
But she wasn’t alone.
Lieutenant Peter McMahon ran a hand along the wing of a Peregrine, nodding to himself as he reviewed the system readiness report. “Structurally sound. Tactical loadout’s another story,” he muttered, flagging two torpedo launchers that were dangerously out of calibration.
Evelyn approached him with a datapad in hand. “What’s your assessment, Lieutenant?”
Peter stood straighter. “Some of these birds are flying blind, Commander. We need better targeting algorithms and flight profile integration. They’re running like they’ve been in a scrapyard for a decade.”
“That’s because some of them have,” Evelyn said flatly. “But they’ll fly. And with your help, they’ll shoot straight.”
Peter nodded. He wasn’t one for small talk—but when it came to combat readiness, he respected anyone willing to fight smart with what they had.
Meanwhile, across the bay, Lieutenant JG Robert McMahon was elbow-deep in the avionics panel of a Valkyrie. “Okay, try it now!” he called out to the pilot in the cockpit.
The console sparked—then hummed to life.
“Got it,” the pilot confirmed.
Robert grinned, pushing back his grease-stained sleeves. “Told you I could resurrect it.” He looked up to see Evelyn watching from across the floor.
“You’ve got a talent for reviving ghosts, McMahon,” she said, approaching.
“I’ve had practice,” Robert quipped. “I can help get the systems online—but you’re going to need to run squad drills if we want them flying like a wing instead of a swarm.”
“We will,” Evelyn assured him. “We just need to make sure they survive the takeoff first.”
Ensign Joseph McMahon, the youngest of the three brothers, was reviewing preflight data alongside a nervous junior pilot. “No, no, you want to run the startup sequence after the fuel stabilizer check, otherwise you’re risking a hard ignition on the port nacelle.” He spoke with a calm clarity that disarmed the new pilot’s anxiety.
Evelyn overheard and gave a quiet nod of approval. Joseph wasn’t flashy, but he understood the systems—and more importantly, he knew how to teach. She filed that away for later.
Back in Ops, Mike McMahon was standing over a large holographic display with Evelyn and Paul Eschanauer.
“You’ll have limited hangar bay energy during the transition,” Mike explained. “But I can reroute enough auxiliary power to keep all your launch cradles active. It’ll just mean cutting back on replicator use in adjacent decks.”
“Do it,” Evelyn replied. “No one needs a fancy dinner if they can’t defend the station.”
Mike cracked a grin. “I’ll make sure the replicators know who to blame.”
Paul Eschanauer, standing beside them, ran a hand through his hair as he reviewed the fighter flight paths. “Your people can fly, no doubt. But their formation timing’s all over the place. We need to run them through coordinated launch and breakaway drills. Fast. I’ll help run sim cycles with your squad leaders.”
Evelyn gave him a grateful look. “Appreciate it, Lieutenant.”
He smirked. “I’m just trying to keep them from running into each other in open space. Tactical coordination starts in the hangar.”
Over the next three days, the McMahon brothers, Evelyn, and the operations and flight control departments turned the chaotic mess of fighters into something that resembled a wing.
Robert fine-tuned weapons and shields with ruthless efficiency.
Peter restructured the tactical launch profiles and helped organize comm protocols for squadron leaders.
Joseph mentored the green pilots, easing them into formation tactics.
Mike balanced power systems and prioritized the wing’s needs, even when others protested.
Paul drilled the fighters relentlessly in simulation space, snapping them into shape with his seasoned pilot’s eye.
And Evelyn? Evelyn never stopped moving—reviewing, commanding, flying the sims herself when needed, setting the tone.
On the fourth day, the first official sortie launched from Starbase Obsidian—a six-ship patrol run through the outer corridor of their designated sector.
They launched clean.
They flew tight.
They came home intact.
And Evelyn, watching the fighters land one by one, allowed herself a moment of quiet pride.
The wing was still small. Still rough around the edges.
But it was hers now.
And it was ready.
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