Montroulez
TNPer
[OOC: An internal self-RP of how the current JSFy VTOL fighter came to be designed and adopted by the Navy; mainly intended as a means of making me flesh out my nation]
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"Now arriving: Admiralty House. Admiralty House. Next stop: Whitefriar. Mind the gap," trilled the speakers as the trolley glided to a stop. Not for the first time, Captain Deniel Calvez silently blessed the century old tradition that prohibited saluting between Admiralty's doors and the trolley line. I do believe my arm would fall off before I made it to the doors today, he thought as he stepped onto the platform alongside hundreds of other officers, yeoman, analysts, and others whose job it was to support the Navy headquarters. Though the lines ran every two minutes at this hour of the day, human nature made it such that the last few trains before one would arrive late, and frequently the first few where one would be late, were jammed full, only emptying out as they passed their center city stops.
But amongst the crowd bustling to their varied desks, the silver razorbill brooch Captain Calvez as truly a rarity. The symbol of Montroulezan naval aviators, it was thus almost always only seen on warrant officers. Despite the privileges and rapid promotions that tended to await those who did make the switch to commissioned officer status, and despite the requirement that squadron commanders having been aviators or observers, it was hard to coax pilots out of the cockpit and into a desk job. Though most such officers were forced into that route due to injuries or age preventing their return to flight status, Captain Calvez had actually volunteered for it, the birth of his first child making him reevaluate the risks inherent to flying off a carrier; even if the navy had gotten rather better about the crash rate over time.
Passing into the magnificent Beaux Arts influenced building with a brief examination of his identification by the sailor on duty, he swung up the ornate circular staircase, eschewing the elevators in his resolve that this morning's butter cake wouldn't become a permanent feature of his body. With four flights of stairs to tackle before he reached his office, it seemed a quite achievable, if tiring, endeavor. Calvez was never quite able to make up his mind as to whether it was symbolism, utilitarianism, or some darker reason that had relegated the various offices of naval aviation to the top floor of Admiralty House; his suspicions had a habit of fluctuating with his mood.
"God's grace," greeted his aide as he finally made into his office, looking up only briefly as he went through the early morning mail. "And on you Corentin," returned Calvez. "Anything of interest?" he asked as he considered whether Lieutenant Quemener was blessed with a preternatural ability to arrive ahead of him or whether he simply took the elevator.
"Just one so far, I've laid it on your desk. Pretty thick," replied Quemener, now bitterly locked in a struggle to the death with a large envelope that had clearly been taped shut by some of the finest minds in military fortifications. "Might be the Harrier follow on survey."
Sitting down at his cherry desk, Calvez slit open the package whose heft had, if anything, been understated by his aide. Clearly the person responsible for mailing it had been a fan of that foreign Doctor Who show and thought that it was bigger on the inside to a nearly infinite degree. Skimming the first page, he saw that it was indeed the long awaited survey results, along with a few other items, promising him weeks of intense study of the hundreds of pages contained within and thousands referenced. But it was one line in particular on that page that promised busy days to come: You are hereby ordered to assemble your staff and, synthesizing the Fleet's experience with the current Harrier, the Fleet war-games referenced above, and industrial advances, prepare the specifications for the next generation Trade Protection Fighter.
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"Now arriving: Admiralty House. Admiralty House. Next stop: Whitefriar. Mind the gap," trilled the speakers as the trolley glided to a stop. Not for the first time, Captain Deniel Calvez silently blessed the century old tradition that prohibited saluting between Admiralty's doors and the trolley line. I do believe my arm would fall off before I made it to the doors today, he thought as he stepped onto the platform alongside hundreds of other officers, yeoman, analysts, and others whose job it was to support the Navy headquarters. Though the lines ran every two minutes at this hour of the day, human nature made it such that the last few trains before one would arrive late, and frequently the first few where one would be late, were jammed full, only emptying out as they passed their center city stops.
But amongst the crowd bustling to their varied desks, the silver razorbill brooch Captain Calvez as truly a rarity. The symbol of Montroulezan naval aviators, it was thus almost always only seen on warrant officers. Despite the privileges and rapid promotions that tended to await those who did make the switch to commissioned officer status, and despite the requirement that squadron commanders having been aviators or observers, it was hard to coax pilots out of the cockpit and into a desk job. Though most such officers were forced into that route due to injuries or age preventing their return to flight status, Captain Calvez had actually volunteered for it, the birth of his first child making him reevaluate the risks inherent to flying off a carrier; even if the navy had gotten rather better about the crash rate over time.
Passing into the magnificent Beaux Arts influenced building with a brief examination of his identification by the sailor on duty, he swung up the ornate circular staircase, eschewing the elevators in his resolve that this morning's butter cake wouldn't become a permanent feature of his body. With four flights of stairs to tackle before he reached his office, it seemed a quite achievable, if tiring, endeavor. Calvez was never quite able to make up his mind as to whether it was symbolism, utilitarianism, or some darker reason that had relegated the various offices of naval aviation to the top floor of Admiralty House; his suspicions had a habit of fluctuating with his mood.
"God's grace," greeted his aide as he finally made into his office, looking up only briefly as he went through the early morning mail. "And on you Corentin," returned Calvez. "Anything of interest?" he asked as he considered whether Lieutenant Quemener was blessed with a preternatural ability to arrive ahead of him or whether he simply took the elevator.
"Just one so far, I've laid it on your desk. Pretty thick," replied Quemener, now bitterly locked in a struggle to the death with a large envelope that had clearly been taped shut by some of the finest minds in military fortifications. "Might be the Harrier follow on survey."
Sitting down at his cherry desk, Calvez slit open the package whose heft had, if anything, been understated by his aide. Clearly the person responsible for mailing it had been a fan of that foreign Doctor Who show and thought that it was bigger on the inside to a nearly infinite degree. Skimming the first page, he saw that it was indeed the long awaited survey results, along with a few other items, promising him weeks of intense study of the hundreds of pages contained within and thousands referenced. But it was one line in particular on that page that promised busy days to come: You are hereby ordered to assemble your staff and, synthesizing the Fleet's experience with the current Harrier, the Fleet war-games referenced above, and industrial advances, prepare the specifications for the next generation Trade Protection Fighter.