| Subject: Chapter 255 - Part 1 (16 and over) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, October 11, 07:25:24am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
Extra warning: This part contains some very mild curse words. I'll rate it 16 and above, just to be safe.
Dreams in the Dark (255/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It was another, brutally long day. From their practice for the air to their training on the ground, very little time was ever his for long. But every second of that was spent dreaming of his wife.
Michael could feel this need for her now, although he was bone tired--even more so than he had been in all those days at the studio. The training here was constant and brutal, his company's situation quite odd. Unlike, he gathered, future recruits--the ones who would come, once the program was more fully established--they were being put through both the basic training of any military and their more specialized duties at once. Any given day might include hours of marching, a several mile run, some time in target practice, and classes in the basics of aerial surveillance, airplane maintenance, navigation, or flying; Sikes had even moved on to start his time in the flight simulator, seemed to be doing quite well. They were moving closer to actual surveillance practice in the air, parachuting, and the other hands-on experience they would soon need. There were simply hundreds of all-consuming tasks, filling every day. It was never-ending. And he was finding himself all the less certain that there was anything left for him to do but survive.
He was walking toward his barracks with all the other members of his immediate training group, these other four men who had been, oddly, chosen--all of them soon to be either on or working on the same plane. Again, it appeared to be unusual--information on his place in this new system gathered in various, small hints. As the earliest group, their situation was uncommon--all of them chosen mostly for early publicity opportunities as well as for, he suspected, simple guinea pig purposes to be a team from here on out. He had no idea what would happen with the other 25 or so early recruits, whether they would be kept together or not--but it was only his own situation he needed to focus on, if he wanted to survive.
None of their experience here was common, then--future volunteers' training apparently intended to be both longer and more specialized. Still, it was his immediate group which concerned him. He himself had been chosen for surveillance duties, as had Ackerman, each of them spending much of their days practicing how much they could spot on the ground in photos taken from several hundred feet in the air; he had had no idea before just how difficult that would be--imagined it would only get worse, once the skills were actually put into practice. In his few experiences on airplanes before, the most any other passenger had done, looking out the windows, was remark on how small everything looked. He had never before realized that it would be nearly impossible to distinguish all the things his superiors wanted.
It wasn't simply in the basics of such reconnaissance that his amazement lay, however. No--it was more the difficulty in learning all the shapes of things he would be looking for. Something as obvious as huge troop movement or large, armored trucks were simple enough. It was in trying to spy a swell of earth which might possibly cover an underground bunker where his new bemusement lay.
He hoped that this job would become simpler, once he was actually seeing the objects for himself, not staring at, often grainy, photographs--but he couldn't be sure. His group had had their first flight a few days ago, all of them passengers, just to get them used to air travel. Considering the fact that both Ackerman and Kane had gotten, almost violently, ill, as the plane had swooped and dived--getting them familiar with the less-sedate types of flight--it didn't bode particular well for their future as a team.
There was only one, mild relief to this fear now--and that was their commanders' reactions to this excursion. Apparently, they had been trying to make them all sick, just to test them out. Even with these exceptions, they seemed to have passed some sort of test.
There was a deep sigh, as they came closer to their barracks, Michael's mind still unsettled--the next thought the worst of all. He knew that the other aspect of his forthcoming job would probably be the most disturbing--certainly would be, when his beloved heard of it. These planes they would fly were equipped, of course, with antiaircraft guns; his heart sank. And he would be the one who would be trying to end someone else's life.
This path had been inevitable from the moment he had been volunteered for such duty--and it wasn't as though he hadn't braced himself for the possibility before. No. It was more the change in himself he feared, the one his beautiful wife would easily discern. And it was this change he feared she would run from as fast as she could.
He didn't want to think into this potential future, couldn't go on, if he did. And he had to go on. The only way back to Nikita was to survive; something in him hardened. He would just have to do so--and then see what was left of him, once he was home again.
He cut off such musings quickly, knew he had to--his mind going back to his new life. He was beginning to get used to his assignment now, had started to more clearly envision his goals. Their training in the classroom was copious--Ackerman, he suspected, having a little trouble keeping up. Just today, Michael had spotted two well-camouflaged antiaircraft guns which the other man had missed--which had, apparently, impressed their colonel, while annoying his nemesis. He was actually proving fairly well-suited to the work, as little as he liked it. It almost gave him the confidence to believe that it would be possible to make it through this alive.
This was his hope, if a painful one--only one fact certain. His imagination was getting well-used in his new job. He supposed that he was actually perfect for the assignment, had been using his imagination in his work for quite sometime. How else could anyone describe many of his roles--his on-screen professions of undying love to Karen, or his character's coldness or disappointment with Nikita--except as an example of "let's pretend"? He did it daily. The director would tell him, "Across the room is the woman of your dreams. You want her so badly you could walk across and take her right now, but you don't want anyone else here to know," and he would find himself staring across the studio in passionate intensity at one of their burliest, and hairiest, grips. He would have smiled, had it not been assured to bring him unwanted attention. Looking at every small rise of a hill or cluster of shrubs as a potentially deadly danger just waiting to attack was easy in comparison.
It was this skill which was putting him ahead, assuring that he had some use in his new life; it would protect him, as much as that was possible now. Ackerman wasn't as lucky. He was a man distinctly without imagination. And it was this deficiency which was getting them into trouble.
The other man had already been chewed out twice in front of the entire squad, for this and other offenses; it didn't improve his typically sour mood--or the safety of his rage's usual target. He generally came out of their classes looking as though he wanted to hit something. And Michael was generally the punching bag he desired the most.
This obvious inclination had yet to break through into actual physical violence, although the pair had come close to it numerous times. The last couple, to Michael's surprise, Willie had been the one to get in between them, doing his best to joke them out of confrontation; it seemed to have worked so far--where Sikes' quiet support for the older man only brought on Ackerman's rages. The actor was thankful, hoping to avoid the inevitable for as long as possible. There were only so many kinds of dangers he had any desire to look for at a time.
This desire wasn't going to protect him for long, however, his nemesis now fuming. Today was the second day they had been in the simulator under mock fire--the sound of the bullets all recordings but loud and threatening enough, as they were. And that said nothing of what they would be facing soon.
He had had a few hints of this, even if he didn't know all the details. Once Sikes was moved into the air--far faster than would be normal for any future volunteers--they would be put to the test. They would not only be flying but probably flying with the sound of fake bullets and plenty of smoke around them. Then, they would see Sikes' real abilities as a pilot, would know whether Willie's newfound skills as a navigator went far enough to get them through. Even if the exercise wouldn't be intended to be deadly, none of them could have any illusions, had to know how many things could go wrong. While he was comforted to hear that Elkins' mechanical abilities were improving, would hopefully help to keep the plane together through it all, there was no doubt that one wrong move could definitely spell disaster.
Michael understood all of this, understood their trainers' reasons for all the drills, as well--even the tougher ones to come. Clearly, the commanders here thought it better to test their recruits first, to ensure that they had some marginal chance for survival, before they were let out into a world where little of that existed. They probably believed that it was better to lose a few here than out in the world, were doing their best to protect them; he tried not to remember their coming training with parachutes--the thought of nothing but air around him terrifying at best, however he hoped to cover the reaction. Here, at least, they couldn't be captured by the enemy; his gaze moved over the men around him. Only experience could tell how many of them could hold out there.
He didn't want to think into this, not knowing exactly what such captivity might bring, hoping they never had to find out. There were supposed to be rules of warfare--enemy soldiers and airmen kept relatively safe and untouched; a shudder almost caught him. But he didn't hold out too much hope for any Nazi's understanding of the rules.
He tried not to think into such possibilities, knew it wasn't healthy. All any of them could do was survive. He, at least, had something of value to get back to. That alone would have to be enough.
It was with his wife and unborn child that his real thoughts remained, keeping him sane through even the worst of his days. He might yet to have a letter in return from her, but he knew he shouldn't complain or worry. Mail was slow--and neither of their days was their own.
They were all filing into the barracks again, were more than ready for the rest to come. They had half an hour ahead of them which was marginally their own before supper. Maybe he would actually dare to write to her in front of these men.
He was just thinking this, was suffering through yet more of Ackerman's poisonous gazes, as Col. Simmons filed in after them with the mail. Michael watched him, feeling his heart freeze in hope--as it had, however irrationally, from the very day after he had mailed his wife this new address. As the names were called, he worked at calm, reminding himself once more not to hope. Had anything been frantically wrong, he probably would have been told. All he could do was sit here and believe that any lack of news was good.
He sat on his cot and sighed, trying not to show his disappointment, as so many of his comrades got their mail. He was so lost in the effort that, when his name was finally called, he almost didn't hear it--blinking once, thinking that he had hallucinated out of sheer hope. When he heard it called again, a bit more warningly the second time--Simmons no fool, knowing what calling attention to the letter might bring--he rose to get it. It didn't help cool the various animosities around him to find himself the center of everyone's sudden attention.
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