Pilot Nason, Call Sign: Stormavik
Nason grew up fascinated with flying. He made models, folded countless paper airplanes, and as soon as he turned 12, he joined the Civil Air Patrol as a cadet. Nason loved being in the air and responded to every call that came in; whether a ground search-and-rescue operation or by air, he was there. Upon turning 18, he joined the Air Force with the hopes of becoming a pilot. He was well on his way, receiving numerous medals and awards for his service.
It was on a weekend leave that Nason saw his dreams crash and burn.
After a night of drinking, Nason was a passenger in a car that hit and killed a pedestrian. When the police arrived, the driver claimed it was Nason who had been behind the wheel. The actual driver received a plea deal to testify against Nason. He was charged and convicted of vehicular manslaughter and sentenced to 5 years in prison. He was dishonorably discharged from the Air Force and spent his time in a Medium Security Prison. Nason found firsthand that the movies and television do little to portray the reality of time in prison.
Upon serving 4 of his 5-year sentence, Nason found himself unable to find a job and, even worse, unable to fly. He took solace at the bottom of a pint glass.
_________
A seedy dive bar somewhere in New Jersey:
“Hey there.” Her smile lifts the fog of Bud that’s been following me all night.
“Hey.” I swallow another mouthful of the stale warm suds hoping to bring the fog back.
“You come here often?” She’s still smiling.
-Humph- “You can’t even try anything original?” My demeanor says, leave me alone. She won’t.
“Okay, look, I’ve seen you around here a few times. You look like you could use some company.” Her smile never falters while something in the pit of his stomach twists.
“I don’t want no company. I want another beer.” I slam my empty pint on the bar waving over at Jocko, who wastes no time topping off my glass with foaming gold. “You still here?” I raise the glass hoping she’ll be gone by the time I put it down.
“You know you really shouldn’t drink if you want to pilot a plane.”
I stop before it touches my lips. “What the hell you talkin’ about, lady. I can’t fly.”
“Not for the Air Force. Not for any private airline… except ours.” Her smile falters, becomes a smirk.
That was then this is, now. I’ve been with Cobra for 5 years. They’ve put me behind the stick of everything they have to offer, fixed wing and rotary. I’ve flown inches above the ocean and miles above the Earth. Despite all that, I found myself stuck in some jungle listening post flying around a damn Trouble Bubble, something so simple a day one Blue Shirt could fly the damn thing. Until he found us.
Agent X-99. When he showed up, everything changed. My gear received an upgrade, a major one at that. And my ride, well, the Trouble Bubble is gone, and the sky’s the limit.
