Gerhard awoke to a harsh screeching whine, shortly followed by a metallic voice telling him to “rise and shine” with all attempts at cheerfulness and personality.  He didn’t wish to do either, but he at least arose, sliding out of the long tube that was his bed, and closing the hatch behind him.
“What time is it?” he wondered. “Thirteen?” That would give him 20 minutes, at best, before they intercepted the convoy.
He mechanically suited up for the run. He dressed bottom to top to avoid getting top heavy in all of his gear.  He found his ship easily enough, strapped harness in every which way, and finally placed his oxygen mask on and closed the cockpit.
As the sweet, sterile oxygen filtered into his lungs, he tightly gripped the controls and moved them around a little bit.  In space, your reflexes had to be fine-tuned from the start, or you wouldn’t finish.  He felt nauseated
A command that somehow managed to be both blaringly loud and still have perfect diction brought the tranquil hangar to chaotic life. “All pilots report to your craft, as the attack will commence in exactly ten minutes, thirty seconds.”
That was the professionalism that existed on the Gyrfalcon.  Anywhere else the captain would have been content with “The raid will commence shortly,” but not Desmond.  He was determined to plan out each and every operation of theirs with pinpoint accuracy.  He claimed that it separated them from the pirates and mercenaries that were so universal.  Nobody openly disagreed with him.  After all, he had never failed yet, and no argument is more compelling than success.
The countdown started. “Five… four...” Hated these raids. “Three… two…” Come on now, focus!  The bay doors flung open and Gerhard felt the world shoot behind him as he rocketed forward, into the void.
He saw the convoy not far off.  It was of course, rushing forward at an incredible rate, but since the Gyrfalcon was as well, they both appeared stationary.  Nonetheless he couldn’t forget just how fast he was moving.  The only maneuver that his speed would allow was a sort of awkward barrel roll.
All at once, the convoy sensed their presence. Huge, garish beams of light and death rushed past them in futility.  Gerhard gritted his teeth and rolled counter-clockwise, accelerating as he did so.
Gerhard was a good pilot.  Some may have called him a little too high-strung, but that didn’t stop him from dodging the battery fire and tagging his target, a small freighter with a large combustible present from good old Captain Desmond.
He decelerated rapidly, causing his ship to rush backwards toward the Gyrfalcon. He neatly landed his craft and let out the breath he had taken two minutes ago at launch.
He smiled wearily.