Tristan Heller
Jan 4th, 2009, 10:59:28 AM
This post is set a few years prior to the current timeline.
It was hot - unbearably so. Even in the light-weight light tan uniform that the United States Army had provided for him, J. Tristan Heller - Chief Warrant Officer 2 - felt as if his very bones were melting. Part of him hoped they actually were: maybe then his flesh would get its wish, and would actually soak into the vaguely padded seat beneath him like it had been trying to do for the last couple of hours. One of the infantry boys hanging about the place wandered past, and threw him a strange look. Heller tossed back a smile; he knew how stupid he probably looked, aviator sunglasses peering out from beneath the jacket draped over his head as a rudimentary shade. He also didn't care: at the end of the day, no matter how ridiculous he looked, most of the soldiers still had to call him 'sir'. That suited him just fine.
His attention shifted around the makeshift airbase for a few minutes, settling on the cloud of dust and sand that rose up from the ground to embrace the landing form of a CH-47. The great beast's tandem blades sliced through the air, passing between each other with a precarious precision that always caught Tristan's breath in his chest when he watched. He knew that the machines were tuned so that the blades would completely miss each other. He knew that the helos had clocked up thousands of flight hours over the decades without incident; Tristan himself was responsible for a good hundred or so of those himself. However, he never felt completely comfortable with the knowledge that two sets of whirling death were so closely positioned over his head.
He supressed a shudder. At least the thing made more sense than the CV-22s the Air Force flew.
Heller had joined the Army years ago, as a logistics driver, trundling around in trucks shipping everything from food and medical supplies to weapons and explosives. It had been one of the few jobs he'd been qualified for after he'd graduated High School by the skin of his pants. At times he wondered if he'd have been better off bowing to his father's vision for him, and had just accepted the place at Harvard that had been sweet-talked for him. Heller wasn't the sort of guy who wanted to owe anything to anyone though; especially not his father.
A career as a pilot had come as a lucky break. His unit commander had recommended him for the selection process, and he'd made it through - barely. Fortunately his practical abilities turned out to be more promising out in the field than they had been back in training. He found himself rolled out on UH-60s - Black Hawks, as they were more commonly known. From there he'd progressed to the larger and more technically disconcerting CH-47 Chinook.
Now however, he'd progressed to the widely-regarded pinacle of helicopter flight: in a few hours time he would begin his first operational mission as the pilot of the much-coveted and highly advanced AH-64D Apache Longbow. Sure, he'd completed the training and orientation on the craft before they'd shipped him out here. Sure, he knew the way that the thing operated inside out, and could probably find his way around the cockpit blindfolded if he had to. It wasn't the same, though: none of those flights - save perhaps for the first time he'd had his hands on the controls during the first stages of training - could compare to the feeling he'd have when he finally got up there for real.
At least, that's what his CO told him. Frankly though, Tristan wasn't viewing this mission with any more anticipation than any other. He'd been shot at before, but as with the other craft he'd flown it wasn't his responsibility to fire back - his gunner would take care of that for him. Though most helicopter pilots loathed the comparison, Heller knew that he was just the driver on this one.
With a sigh, Heller glanced down at his watch. A quick mental calculation converted local time into how things would be back home. He considered trying to sweet-talk someone in the communications tent into letting him have a few minutes on the satellite phone; maybe call in and check on his little brother. Monty was doing some sort of teaching / PhD type thing back home; something complicated, and to do with computers. Honestly, he didn't really understand anything, but was proud of his little bro for turning his nerdish tendancies into a way of defying their father and his desire for his offspring to follow him into Law.
His sister on the other hand - Phillipa - had jumped at the chance to be daddy's little girl. In truth, Tristan felt a little sorry for her; while their father had been pressuring Tristan into his perfect successor, Phillipa had been sidelined. She'd worked herself to the bone trying to be the son that Tristan wasn't; it hadn't been until Tristan had left for the Army that their father paid any notice to her. Now however she was his willing protégé, and had even been promoted to 'big sister', despite Tristan being older. Not that Tristan really minded; he just wished she'd stop being so condescending in the letters she kept sending.
With a sigh, Heller decided that maybe now wasn't the best time to phone home; the last thing he needed was to clog his brain up with Heller family politics when he should really be focussing on the mission. Finally dragging himself to his feet, he casually brushed off the thin film of sand and dust that had been deposited in his lap by the breeze, and the Chinook landing. It took a few moments and another passing soldier for him to realise that his jacket was still draped over his head. Pulling it free, shoving his arms roughly into the sleeves, and letting it hang loose and open from his shoulders, he set his sights on the command building, and went in search of coffee.
It was hot - unbearably so. Even in the light-weight light tan uniform that the United States Army had provided for him, J. Tristan Heller - Chief Warrant Officer 2 - felt as if his very bones were melting. Part of him hoped they actually were: maybe then his flesh would get its wish, and would actually soak into the vaguely padded seat beneath him like it had been trying to do for the last couple of hours. One of the infantry boys hanging about the place wandered past, and threw him a strange look. Heller tossed back a smile; he knew how stupid he probably looked, aviator sunglasses peering out from beneath the jacket draped over his head as a rudimentary shade. He also didn't care: at the end of the day, no matter how ridiculous he looked, most of the soldiers still had to call him 'sir'. That suited him just fine.
His attention shifted around the makeshift airbase for a few minutes, settling on the cloud of dust and sand that rose up from the ground to embrace the landing form of a CH-47. The great beast's tandem blades sliced through the air, passing between each other with a precarious precision that always caught Tristan's breath in his chest when he watched. He knew that the machines were tuned so that the blades would completely miss each other. He knew that the helos had clocked up thousands of flight hours over the decades without incident; Tristan himself was responsible for a good hundred or so of those himself. However, he never felt completely comfortable with the knowledge that two sets of whirling death were so closely positioned over his head.
He supressed a shudder. At least the thing made more sense than the CV-22s the Air Force flew.
Heller had joined the Army years ago, as a logistics driver, trundling around in trucks shipping everything from food and medical supplies to weapons and explosives. It had been one of the few jobs he'd been qualified for after he'd graduated High School by the skin of his pants. At times he wondered if he'd have been better off bowing to his father's vision for him, and had just accepted the place at Harvard that had been sweet-talked for him. Heller wasn't the sort of guy who wanted to owe anything to anyone though; especially not his father.
A career as a pilot had come as a lucky break. His unit commander had recommended him for the selection process, and he'd made it through - barely. Fortunately his practical abilities turned out to be more promising out in the field than they had been back in training. He found himself rolled out on UH-60s - Black Hawks, as they were more commonly known. From there he'd progressed to the larger and more technically disconcerting CH-47 Chinook.
Now however, he'd progressed to the widely-regarded pinacle of helicopter flight: in a few hours time he would begin his first operational mission as the pilot of the much-coveted and highly advanced AH-64D Apache Longbow. Sure, he'd completed the training and orientation on the craft before they'd shipped him out here. Sure, he knew the way that the thing operated inside out, and could probably find his way around the cockpit blindfolded if he had to. It wasn't the same, though: none of those flights - save perhaps for the first time he'd had his hands on the controls during the first stages of training - could compare to the feeling he'd have when he finally got up there for real.
At least, that's what his CO told him. Frankly though, Tristan wasn't viewing this mission with any more anticipation than any other. He'd been shot at before, but as with the other craft he'd flown it wasn't his responsibility to fire back - his gunner would take care of that for him. Though most helicopter pilots loathed the comparison, Heller knew that he was just the driver on this one.
With a sigh, Heller glanced down at his watch. A quick mental calculation converted local time into how things would be back home. He considered trying to sweet-talk someone in the communications tent into letting him have a few minutes on the satellite phone; maybe call in and check on his little brother. Monty was doing some sort of teaching / PhD type thing back home; something complicated, and to do with computers. Honestly, he didn't really understand anything, but was proud of his little bro for turning his nerdish tendancies into a way of defying their father and his desire for his offspring to follow him into Law.
His sister on the other hand - Phillipa - had jumped at the chance to be daddy's little girl. In truth, Tristan felt a little sorry for her; while their father had been pressuring Tristan into his perfect successor, Phillipa had been sidelined. She'd worked herself to the bone trying to be the son that Tristan wasn't; it hadn't been until Tristan had left for the Army that their father paid any notice to her. Now however she was his willing protégé, and had even been promoted to 'big sister', despite Tristan being older. Not that Tristan really minded; he just wished she'd stop being so condescending in the letters she kept sending.
With a sigh, Heller decided that maybe now wasn't the best time to phone home; the last thing he needed was to clog his brain up with Heller family politics when he should really be focussing on the mission. Finally dragging himself to his feet, he casually brushed off the thin film of sand and dust that had been deposited in his lap by the breeze, and the Chinook landing. It took a few moments and another passing soldier for him to realise that his jacket was still draped over his head. Pulling it free, shoving his arms roughly into the sleeves, and letting it hang loose and open from his shoulders, he set his sights on the command building, and went in search of coffee.