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eliyesTitle: Turbulence
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Author's Note: Tag to the novel Home Is The Hunter by Dana Kramer-Rolls. SPOILERS FOR THE BOOK. The book has time travel; this fic features James T. Kirk's ancestor and his reaction to the death of his friend -- Pavel Andreievich Chekov. The dialogue in italics is from the novel.
London, November 1942
John C. Kirk, Lieutenant, United States Army Air Corps, serial number 0-159466, was well on his way to getting truly hammered. He was holed up in a tiny bedroom somewhere in London, just him and a bottle of something claiming to be whiskey. He had his doubts, but it had a kick, and he was determined to see the bottom of it dry before midnight.
It wasn't helping.
He knew from experience that enough alcohol could sometimes knock him out hard enough that nightmares about his time in a Nazi prison camp could get no purchase on his sleeping mind. The bottle should do the trick, but it was getting drunk enough that was proving a challenge tonight. The booze only seemed to amplify his grief, and his guilt.
"Pavel..." he moaned morosely, and not for the first time.
John had been the one to suggest codenames drawn from the titles of Russian plays for this last mission. 'The Cherry Orchard' for the Red Guard squadron was appropriate enough, and 'Uncle Vanya' for the transport John flew with Averell Harriman tucked inside was a good match; no one had objected, or questioned John's motives.
Ivan would have known. But then, Ivan had been in that cell with John and the enigmatic Pavel Chekov, who shared a last name with a certain Russian playwright... And Ivan would have understood why John did it, half tribute and half magic spell to summon the man who was shot in the arm pulling Ivan into the plane as they made their escape in a stolen German Ju-52 -- and didn't let go. Pavel had nearly bled to death in the co-pilot seat next to John, passing out just before they'd landed at the People's Hero airstrip. He'd been rushed off by Russian medics as soon as John and Ivan could get him out of the plane.
John hadn't actually been sure he'd made it.
And then there he'd been on the radio, commanding the squadron escorting Harriman out of Russia.
"Don't worry, John. We'll take good care of you."
Finding out that the Russian pilot was still alive had had John grinning like an idiot -- right up until he'd spotted the flight of German fighters winging towards them, just minutes from their planned rendezvous with the RAF planes that were to escort John the rest of the way. As good as his word, Pavel had snapped out orders to his men, sending some to try to draw the Nazis away and leading the rest in protecting the transport.
When a German plane strafed John's and one of the little YAKs had broken formation to shoot it out of the sky, John had known in his gut that things were about to go badly. Twice, he'd been a hair's-breadth from scuttling the whole damn mission -- but Pavel wouldn't let him.
"John, get out of here. Go high. You have the ceiling."
He'd wanted to stay and fight. He didn't leave his friends behind -- but Pavel wasn't having any of it.
"You have your mission, damn it. Harriman must get to London. Please."
It was the "please" as much as the reminder of his duty that did the trick. The mission was important, of course. He'd told Pavel that a man had to take risks for what he believed in; it had been the Russian's turn, pitting his tiny plane and all his skills against the Nazis. John couldn't deny him that right.
All the same, he'd almost turned back when the panicky voices of the other Russian pilots on his radio tipped him off that Pavel had been hit. He'd shouted into the radio his intention to do just that.
"Nonsense! Just a little turbulence. You come back here, Kirk, I'll flatten you."
So John had gone on, leaving behind the dogfight -- and a parachute that wafted down to the frigid Baltic Sea.
"Damn you, Pavel," he muttered into the bottle, eyes clenched shut.
They'd made their rendezvous with the RAF squadrons, and gotten Harriman to London unscathed. Of course, the American diplomat had heard the whole thing, as had John's co-pilot. He fully expected to be court-martialed, but at the moment he found it hard to care. He was far too occupied with blaming himself for the death of the brave young man he'd befriended in that cell in Stalingrad. Because it was his fault, wasn't it? He'd wanted proof that Pavel was still alive, and his wish had been granted... and then Pavel had very probably died saving John.
"Get out of here. You have to save yourself."
"No, Pavel!"
He brooded over what he could possibly have done differently until the night gave way to a soft alcoholic fog and faded away. It was noon the next day when one of John's superior officers tracked him to the chaotic mess hall where he was engaged in trying to kill the wicked hangover kicking at his eyeballs with the ruthless application of some fairly terrible tea. The man forced some minty gum on him and dragged him off to a general to meet his fate.
Instead of a court-martial, he was given a medal and promoted to Captain. For days, he got a lump in his throat whenever someone addressed him by his new rank, remembering that Russian-accented voice yelling it at him over the radio in Latvian airspace.
But the war went on, and so did John. With every brave life extinguished in the effort to stop the Nazis, the idea of losing became yet more intolerable, and every one who lived to fight on because of the sacrifice of their brothers-in-arms had that much more reason to refuse to yield.
John C. Kirk had learned not to give up hope. He would give his all in the fight for peace; he had promises to keep.
"What are you going to do after the war, Chekov?"
"I don't know. I guess I'd better survive the war first. You?"
"Stay in the Army Air Corps, if they'll have me. Go back to school and be an engineer if not. Get married, have kids."
"That sounds nice."
.
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Author's Note: Tag to the novel Home Is The Hunter by Dana Kramer-Rolls. SPOILERS FOR THE BOOK. The book has time travel; this fic features James T. Kirk's ancestor and his reaction to the death of his friend -- Pavel Andreievich Chekov. The dialogue in italics is from the novel.
London, November 1942
John C. Kirk, Lieutenant, United States Army Air Corps, serial number 0-159466, was well on his way to getting truly hammered. He was holed up in a tiny bedroom somewhere in London, just him and a bottle of something claiming to be whiskey. He had his doubts, but it had a kick, and he was determined to see the bottom of it dry before midnight.
It wasn't helping.
He knew from experience that enough alcohol could sometimes knock him out hard enough that nightmares about his time in a Nazi prison camp could get no purchase on his sleeping mind. The bottle should do the trick, but it was getting drunk enough that was proving a challenge tonight. The booze only seemed to amplify his grief, and his guilt.
"Pavel..." he moaned morosely, and not for the first time.
John had been the one to suggest codenames drawn from the titles of Russian plays for this last mission. 'The Cherry Orchard' for the Red Guard squadron was appropriate enough, and 'Uncle Vanya' for the transport John flew with Averell Harriman tucked inside was a good match; no one had objected, or questioned John's motives.
Ivan would have known. But then, Ivan had been in that cell with John and the enigmatic Pavel Chekov, who shared a last name with a certain Russian playwright... And Ivan would have understood why John did it, half tribute and half magic spell to summon the man who was shot in the arm pulling Ivan into the plane as they made their escape in a stolen German Ju-52 -- and didn't let go. Pavel had nearly bled to death in the co-pilot seat next to John, passing out just before they'd landed at the People's Hero airstrip. He'd been rushed off by Russian medics as soon as John and Ivan could get him out of the plane.
John hadn't actually been sure he'd made it.
And then there he'd been on the radio, commanding the squadron escorting Harriman out of Russia.
"Don't worry, John. We'll take good care of you."
Finding out that the Russian pilot was still alive had had John grinning like an idiot -- right up until he'd spotted the flight of German fighters winging towards them, just minutes from their planned rendezvous with the RAF planes that were to escort John the rest of the way. As good as his word, Pavel had snapped out orders to his men, sending some to try to draw the Nazis away and leading the rest in protecting the transport.
When a German plane strafed John's and one of the little YAKs had broken formation to shoot it out of the sky, John had known in his gut that things were about to go badly. Twice, he'd been a hair's-breadth from scuttling the whole damn mission -- but Pavel wouldn't let him.
"John, get out of here. Go high. You have the ceiling."
He'd wanted to stay and fight. He didn't leave his friends behind -- but Pavel wasn't having any of it.
"You have your mission, damn it. Harriman must get to London. Please."
It was the "please" as much as the reminder of his duty that did the trick. The mission was important, of course. He'd told Pavel that a man had to take risks for what he believed in; it had been the Russian's turn, pitting his tiny plane and all his skills against the Nazis. John couldn't deny him that right.
All the same, he'd almost turned back when the panicky voices of the other Russian pilots on his radio tipped him off that Pavel had been hit. He'd shouted into the radio his intention to do just that.
"Nonsense! Just a little turbulence. You come back here, Kirk, I'll flatten you."
So John had gone on, leaving behind the dogfight -- and a parachute that wafted down to the frigid Baltic Sea.
"Damn you, Pavel," he muttered into the bottle, eyes clenched shut.
They'd made their rendezvous with the RAF squadrons, and gotten Harriman to London unscathed. Of course, the American diplomat had heard the whole thing, as had John's co-pilot. He fully expected to be court-martialed, but at the moment he found it hard to care. He was far too occupied with blaming himself for the death of the brave young man he'd befriended in that cell in Stalingrad. Because it was his fault, wasn't it? He'd wanted proof that Pavel was still alive, and his wish had been granted... and then Pavel had very probably died saving John.
"Get out of here. You have to save yourself."
"No, Pavel!"
He brooded over what he could possibly have done differently until the night gave way to a soft alcoholic fog and faded away. It was noon the next day when one of John's superior officers tracked him to the chaotic mess hall where he was engaged in trying to kill the wicked hangover kicking at his eyeballs with the ruthless application of some fairly terrible tea. The man forced some minty gum on him and dragged him off to a general to meet his fate.
Instead of a court-martial, he was given a medal and promoted to Captain. For days, he got a lump in his throat whenever someone addressed him by his new rank, remembering that Russian-accented voice yelling it at him over the radio in Latvian airspace.
But the war went on, and so did John. With every brave life extinguished in the effort to stop the Nazis, the idea of losing became yet more intolerable, and every one who lived to fight on because of the sacrifice of their brothers-in-arms had that much more reason to refuse to yield.
John C. Kirk had learned not to give up hope. He would give his all in the fight for peace; he had promises to keep.
"What are you going to do after the war, Chekov?"
"I don't know. I guess I'd better survive the war first. You?"
"Stay in the Army Air Corps, if they'll have me. Go back to school and be an engineer if not. Get married, have kids."
"That sounds nice."
.
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Date: 2009-08-08 02:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-08 09:02 am (UTC)It was actually a pretty decent book; obviously I liked the Chekov bits, but the Scotty bits were not too bad, there was only one glaring error in the Sulu bits, and the Kirk bits were, shall we say, very Kirk.