Chapter 8 Part 7

Blake walked the long walk back to their apartment. But instead of going in, he passed it up and went down to the fighter's lounge. There was a sound of celebration and revelry coming from within. Several pilots had been killed in the skirmish, and they were being remembered by celebrating the survival of those still alive.

Tradition demanded that VRAD crews not attend that particular party since they generally did not risk their lives in combat, but Blake felt that there was something that needed doing. He keyed the door and stepped inside.

The room was trashed as men laughed and joked and threw rolls of paper and food about in celebration. But with the entrance of the VRAD commander, the room became deathly quiet. All attention was focused on Blake.

"What is he doing here?" Render muttered acidly.

Blake responded by taking four steps over to the fighter pilot and looking him square in the eye. "Did you get your kills?"

Render's frown turned into a thin smile. "Yes I did. I risked my life and downed two by myself and assisted in six more. That makes me an ace."

"Congratulations," Blake offered. At he same time he decked the young rash pilot with a haymaker which sent the man sprawling to the floor.

Blake walked past the angry jock as the downed pilot glared back, rubbing his jaw.
Blake stepped up to another young pilot with long black braids and a bandanna about his head. "Searchinghawk?"

"Yes?" The Indian stood tall and firm as if expecting equal treatment.

"Stand down, son," Roundhouse told his junior. "This is Blackjack."

Searchinghawk's eyes softened slightly. "You have my thanks, sir," he said. "If it had not been for your sacrifice, I would not be here now."

Blake nodded. He tried to speak, but choked. He settled for holding out the Wildcard's nameplate. Finally, he found his voice again. "I want you to have this. She served you as well as she served me."

Roundhouse reached out and took the placard from the stunned Indian. All eyes followed the senior fighter pilot as he reverently walked over to Speedway Squadron's trophy wall. There, he placed the placard on the wall higher than any other plaque.

"A place of honor," one of the other senior pilots explained to his fellows. "Honor for a mindless drone that made the ultimate sacrifice to save one of our own when his wingman abandoned him and went glory hopping."

"From this day on, the tights are welcome here any time they please," Roundhouse announced.

"And any man who ducks out and goes chasing after kills and leaves his wingman does not deserve the honor of being called and ace," another voice added.

There was several cries of agreement, but they were cut off as the door closed behind Blake after his departure. There were some thing's that had to be done, and the memory of the Wildcard had been secured.

Blake found that he was suddenly very very tired. It was time to go back to the apartment and get some sleep. When he stepped inside the commons room of the apartment, it was unoccupied. Blake had almost expected to see the rest of his crew there, but they were all probably too excited about the new assignment to sleep.

Blake looked slowly around the room. Lochlear was right about one thing. He should have a memento of his first command, and Blake knew exactly what that was to be. He walked up to the slot machine and pulled the handle one last time as the commander of the Wildcard. He did not wait to see what it stopped on.