Hal Sleet glanced at the clock on the wall of the radio studio before opening the microphone. With a long-practiced motion, he dialed it up without overdoing it. “It’s ten minutes to six on a Friday afternoon. Before I hoof over Retro Radio Two to Pete Mahedrin, the leading cause of aspirin sales here in Vegas, I just want to take a few minutes to say goodbye to everyone.
“Goodbye because monsoon season officially starts Monday, and your favorite Retro Radio deejay has been recalled to active duty with the Nevada Aeronautical Survey, or the nasty Nassies. Seems like they can’t do without the best storm buster in Vegas, so I won’t be back until the fall. Just remember, fellow pegasi, it does no good to do anything about the weather on your own. Talk about it first with Nassie staff before doing anything!
“The station staff had a drawing to see who will fill in for me, and my producer, assistant, and all-around gold digger and bone biter, Malone Fonebone, drew the short straw, so he’s going to be filling in for me.” Hal said, glancing at the big diamond dog as he sat at his own console.
Malone opened his own mic. “Of course, I drew the short straw, Mr. Sleet.” he said in his hoarse Cockney voice. “Everyone else used the paper from the printer. All I had was me notepad.”
That comment was followed by a pause so pregnant, it delivered a filly, a colt and a litter of puppies before Hal audibly drew breath. By the time he spoke, a dragon’s egg to be named later was added to the list. “Fonebone, you have the brains of a five-year-old, and I’m sure he was glad to get rid of it.” Sleet managed to say in a long-suffering voice.
“Oh, no, Mr. Sleet.” Fonebone said earnestly. “He was at least nine, I’m sure.”
“Then he lied about his age, and you didn’t catch it. Go get me my evening coffee. I have an appearance tonight, and I need the stimulant.”
“Roight, Mr. Sleet.” The diamond dog’s footsteps could be heard in the background as he walked to the coffee station.
Hal turned his attention back to the microphone. “That’s right, Hal Sleet and the Dippy Hippies will be appearing at Rustler’s tonight from eight to ten, playing music from the sixties and seventies. I look forward to seeing all you great pones there, because it’s my last chance to do so for a few months. Maybe longer, because before I get back to the studio, I’m going to be a father. Lady Raven is set to deliver her foal in about six weeks. I’m looking forward to that!”
Hal turned to accept the coffee mug Fonebone was passing to him. “Thanks, Boney.” He said before taking a sip. Next to be heard were sirens, car alarms, and a somewhat muted shriek of pain from Hal, followed by the sonorous tone of a foghorn before two seconds of silence.
“Foney, I didn’t say use the high test…” Hal gasped.
“You do have that show tonight, Mr. Sleet. You do need to be awake for that.” Fonebone said earnestly.
“But I didn’t want to have to fly around Vegas three times to burn off excess power, you dimwitted Dalmatian!” Hal snapped back.
“I am not a Dalmatian, I am an English Mastiff.” Fonebone said in his most pompous tones.
“Oh, yeah? The only time your mast is stiff is when you’re up to your neck in ice water!” Hal riposted, his voice just a little raspy.
“The wife, she likes it that way.” Fonebone sniffed.
“That’s not what she told me last week.” Hal said snidely, turning his attention back to the microphones.
“Okay, everypony, time for me to go kick Fonebone up one side of Mount Charleston and down the other. I’ll see you at Rustler’s tonight from eight to ten, and don’t be too hard on Boney while I’m gone. That’s mine and Stanley the Manager’s job.
“Until the fall, everypony!” Hal called out before playing his typical weekend sign off tune, Bill Haley and the Comets classic ‘See you later, Alligator’.
Making sure the microphone was off, Hal got off the controller’s bench to make way for Pete Mahedrin. “That last bit was hilarious, Hal. It was all I could do to not lose it in the studio!” the green and black earth pony laughed as he wiped down the bench before straddling it for his shift.
“Fred came up with the idea. We hashed it out at the bottom break. It worked, didn’t it?” the grey pegasus with the rainbow kaleidoscopic mane and tail said, unwilling to keep a straight face, referring to Malone Fonebone’s real name, Fred Standring, a former British radio deejay who was vacationing in Vegas when the Event happened over thirty-two hundred years ago. Fred is also the music director for Retro Radio Two.
“That it did, Hal. Be safe while working with Nassie, okay? We want you back.” Pete said, lining up his first songs for play.
“I want to be back, too, Pete. By then, I’ll have a foal to raise. Can’t miss that, can I?” Hal said as he raised a hoof for a hoofbump, which was returned with a smile.
“No, you shouldn’t. My best to Raven, and have fun tonight.” Pete said before paying attention to his music. Hal quietly made his way out of the studio, making sure the soundproof door was shut securely before falling to the floor, laughing loud and hard.
Fred came by to help Hal get his feet under him again, trying to hide his own laughter, but not trying TOO hard. “Damn, we do good work together, don’t we?” he managed to say in his London tones.
Hal finally got his breath back, standing shakily on his hooves. “After five years, it’s almost automatic between us. Our ‘rivalry’ is bringing in the ratings, and that’s what matters, right?”
“Indeed, it does, Mr. Sleet.” Fred said, slipping back into Malone’s cockney accent, smiling broadly.
“Okay, which of you came up with that comedy sketch?” Stanley Livingstone, the zebra station manager demanded seriously, stepping out of his office to glare at the two in the hallway.
Fred and Hal both looked at Stanley, pointed at each other, and said in the same tone of voice, “He did, sir!” before collapsing in laughter.
Stanley waited until the two calmed down. “It’s going to be hard without you till the fall, Hal.” He said, finally smiling some. Hal is his #1 rated deejay, and has been so since he arrived at Retro Radio Two five years before.
“It’s going to be hard on me, too. Without having to worry about keeping this maniac under control” Hal said, pointing a wing at Fred, “All I have to worry about is not getting enough sleep when the foal arrives.”
“You’ll manage, Hal. If I could do it, and Fred could do it, no reason you can’t.” Stanley said, Fred nodding in agreement. “Now, get going before Raven teleports here and drags you home!”
“Good point, Stan. I’ll be in touch, even though I won’t be on air for you. I won’t be storm busting all the time!” Hal said with an easy smile. He hoofbumped Stanley and Fred before heading out of the building, taking wing and heading home in the hot Nevada late spring sun.
Four ponies gathered in an office at NAS, three pegasi and a unicorn. Everypony wore thin shirts emblazoned with the NAS logo, a shadow outline of the former Stratosphere tower silhouetted against a white cumulus cloud, crossed by a yellow stylized lightning bolt.
From behind the desk, the leader of NAS Weather Control, Colonel Silas Stormcloud, a pegasus with a two-toned fur pattern, light brown underside with a dark brown back, black mane and tail, wings the color of dust and a cutie mark of a cumulus cloud with a lightning bolt inside, called the meeting to order.
“Okay, ponies, let’s get started. I need to get everything set for First Muster on Monday.” Silas said in his gravelly voice. A Returnee, he had arrived in Vegas thirty years before, a colonel in the USAF when human. Some ponies call him a forceful, dynamic leader. Others call him a tyrant. Who says what depends on how closely one worked with him.
He spread an organizational chart out on the desk. Silas and his command staff, Turbulent Air, a blue and red pegasus with a swirly-line cutie mark in white, Elena Strong Wing, a chestnut mare with white wings whose cutie mark is three black feathers, and the unicorn is his logistics chief, Blue Star, yellow-coated with a green mane and a blue tail and horn, his cutie mark a blue eight-pointed star.
Together, they hammered out who was going to go where, dividing up the list of volunteers. When Hal Sleet’s name came up, Silas assigned him to the training wing, supervising the rookies, staying well back from the front lines. “But, Colonel, I thought you wanted Sleet in Squadron One with you!” Elena complained. “He’s too good a storm breaker to be held back in Tango Flight!”
Silas glared at his exec. “Major Strong Wing, who is in command here?” he growled.
Elena looked back at Silas coolly, having worked with him for over a decade, and his exec for the past six storm seasons. “You are, Colonel. I just don’t understand why you would relegate Sleet to the trainee flight. Swift Rain is a much better teacher. Sleet’s skill is primarily inherent.”
“Major Strong Wing, Sleet and I have been at loggerheads since he arrived. He is not properly respectful of command authority!”
“You heard him tell you to piss up a rope in a thunderstorm after that one cell passed within half a mile of the edge of town last week, didn’t you? I’m wondering why you let it get that close myself.” Elena fired back.
“Testing new methods of storm dispersal. If you do not approve, Major, you can resign your commission immediately, without prejudice.” Silas growled, his wings flaring some.
“No way in hell, Colonel. I earned my way to where I am, and I’m not going to let you chase me out of it, you hear me?” Elena replied, her own wings flaring.
“Major, do you have your lists and charts made out to your satisfaction?” the Colonel managed to say evenly, though his wings and ears belied his outward calm. “If so, you are dismissed to prepare. Blue Star will catch up with you later about logistics.”
Elena snapped out a brisk wing salute, gathered up her share of the papers and did not quite stalk out of the office. Once the office door closed behind her, Silas muttered, “About time she got out of here.”
Turbulent Air looked at his commanding officer. “You haven’t brought her in yet?” he asked.
“I’m not going to. She’s too damn honest. You, me, Blue Star here, Flight One, Squadrons One and Two are all I’m bringing in to Project Blue Bolt.”
“I hope that’s enough power concentrated into doing the job.” Blue Star muttered quietly.
“It should, Major. I’ve got a lot staked on this summer going the way I have planned. You liaise with Squadrons Kilo and Romeo and make sure they know their jobs this season.” Kilo Squadron being the full-time NAS squad in Kingman, and Romeo is in Riviera. “Papa Flight I’ll control from here.” referring to the forward observation post maintained in the former Primm, Nevada.
“Lots of teleporting for me. Good thing I’m used to it.”
“When this plan is complete, we’ll be sitting pretty. Hell, if all works out the way I plan, I will suggest Sleet be given a full-time position and a Flight command. I may not like him, but we all know how good he is.” Silas growled. Both Majors nodded in agreement. Sleet IS one of the best, but his fundamental honesty (not to mention his heckling ways on air) would get in the way of the plans they all had. “If he ever finds out about Project Blue Bolt, he can raise a lot of flak.”