“Understood. As soon as the dry dock is equalized, open the aft flight deck doors.”
Harper spread his legs a little further apart to improve his balance. As the dry dock doors opened, the force of the escaping air caused the ship to shake, even more so for those standing on the deck plating designed to move when the fighters are lifted to the deck for launch. The hull of the ship groaned as it settled between the internal air pressure, and the vacuum of space. The shaking and groaning was visibly disturbing to the civilians onboard, and mildly so for the younger officers and crewmen.
Moments later, the aft doors of the flight deck slid sideways into their recesses on either side, leaving a nine-meter-high triangular hole, where the blue, green, and white marble of a planet below could be seen reflecting in the brilliance of the sun.
The speed at which the doors opened was impressive, and Harper shuddered slightly at the logic behind this design. The containment field, designed to hold in air on the flight deck while the doors were open, was a recent technological development. Auxiliary craft on other vessels were launched from docking bays that had to be depressurized before launch, but the flight deck of the Resolution had to be able to remain pressurized while vessels were launching and landing, due to the 20 to 40 personnel on deck at any given time. The containment field had its own power source, but the designers of the Nimitz Class assault carrier knew that it was not impervious to damage. In the event of a containment field failure, the doors needed to be able to close quickly, but no one wanted to imagine the consequences for the deck crew due to the rapid decompression, and the possibility of being sucked out the doors before they closed.
The chairman of the U.N.C., Lawrence Taft, stood to Harper’s right side. He was a portly man, with a graying mustache and an impressive full head of hair for a man of 83. Harper had noticed that he was nervous since he arrived on the ship, but became increasingly agitated since the flight deck doors opened.
“Shouldn’t we be wearing oxygen masks?” Lawrence whispered, while keeping a strained smile his face. He was also acutely aware of the cameras pointed in his direction, and cared a great deal more.
He was referring to the oxygen masks the deck crew wore during launches and combat landings. As vessels came through the containment field, there would be a small exchange that results in a loss of air from the deck. When large amounts of vessels are going through the field in close succession or simultaneously, the loss of air could be more than the life support system can keep up with, and breathing could become difficult. However, an engineer had assured Harper that this would not be an issue during the ceremony, as only five fighters would be landing. The rest of the ships compliment of 156 fighters were already stowed away on the deck below.
“Not to worry, Mr. Chairman, with only five fighters coming through, the air loss will be negligible and brief,” Harper responded, smiling as if they had exchanged a joke.
The Chairman nodded his head, and some of the color returned to his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Harper saw the reflection of the sun on the five Blackbird Mark III space-superiority fighters approaching the ship. A feeling of bitter anticipation welled up inside him.
Harper had joined the Sol Space Defense Force at age 17. By the time he was 18, with his natural ability for flying the Mark I and his aptitude for leadership, he earned two promotions and a position as CAG.
This all felt like a lifetime ago. At age 21, Harper had transferred to the U.N.C. Navy as a lieutenant, and never looked back. However, he knew that being around fighter craft on a regular basis was going to inspire a nagging sense of nostalgia. There was a chime over the flight decks PA system, and the voice of Lieutenant Symon Anatoli, the next officer in charge of flight operations after Parker, boomed with surprising clarity over the cavernous flight deck.
“Attention all hands, fighters incoming. ETA one minute. Prepare for landing procedures, and maintain a safe distance.”
The crewmen lining the port and starboard side of the flight deck, dressed in black BDUs, stood at attention. Even the deck crew, which was standing on the craft elevator, ended their chatter and diverted their attention to the open doors. The civilians and media all watched the approaching fighters with a mix of awe and intimidation, leaving a silence so prevalent, the only things that could be heard were the ventilation system and boot steps from various decks reverberating through the bulk heads.
The lead fighter engaged braking thrusters, and the two fighters on each side followed suit. The maneuver was so perfect that in spite of the change in velocity, all five craft maintained the exact same formation, giving the impression that they were a solid unit attached to each other by some invisible frame.
They slowed just enough to allow them all the room they needed to land, and crossed the threshold with a blue hued static exchange between the fighters’ hulls and the containment field. When they had all crossed into the flight decks atmosphere, the fighters leaned back slightly and engaged their ventral thrusters, both stopping their forward momentum, and controlling their vertical descent onto the deck.
A mechanical whir could be heard in quintuplet as the landing skids descended, and the fighters settled on the deck. The civilians immediately erupted in applause as the canopies opened and ladders descended from beside the cockpits. Harper smiled at how easily the crowd was amused. Seeing the same maneuver performed at high velocity during combat was significantly more impressive, but no civilian had ever witnessed this in person.
The lead pilot stood up and placed a boot on the first step of his ladder, before taking off his flight helmet. He tucked it under his arm and smiled as he waved at the crowd. Harper was almost instantly annoyed. Being a former fighter pilot himself, he was well aware that since they first put a gun on an airplane in the 20th century, fighter pilots were treated like royalty. He was also aware of how this treatment would affect a pilot’s humility, but had grown out of it since joining the U.N.C. Navy. Now, he found the behavior associated with it annoying.
“Just what a naval vessel needs, sir,” he said under his breath to McLeod, “a bunch of cocky fighter pilots.”
“Relax, Commander, they’ll learn soon enough that there’s no limelight out there on the front lines,” McLeod responded.
After reveling in the attention, the lead pilot, a handsome man with close cut black hair and a sparkling smile, descended the ladder and approached McLeod before nonchalantly saluting.
“Major Tom Glenn, reporting for duty, sir,” the pilot said in a very unofficial tone. The Captain didn’t seem to notice.
“Welcome aboard, Major, your flight record is the most impressive I’ve seen since our Commander here hung up his helmet,” McLeod said, extending his hand to the pilot. “I’m sure you will make an excellent CAG for the Resolution.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll try not to disappoint. If you don’t mind, I would like go below and meet the rest of my pilots.”
“Absolutely, Major. You’re dismissed.”
The U.N.C. public relations director began to direct the civilians and media off the flight deck, and off the ship, as the fighters were magnetically taxied to the elevator. Harper watched as the fighters turned their collective port hulls towards him, and the circular green emblem, with the head of a timber wolf, gleamed on the tails of the craft in the flight decks bright, if slightly jaundicing, light.
The Crew Chief, Gerard Gallagher, approached Harper and McLeod in a decidedly non-military gate, but when he arrived, stood at attention and gave a salute worthy of a commissioned officer. Gallagher was a husky man of average height. His hair was a short, dark, curly, and usually matted with sweat. His right hand, now held level with his eyes, were thick with callous, and betrayed the hands-on approach he took to his supervisory role on the maintenance deck.
“Captain, Commander,” he said, without the characteristic unease that most non-commissioned officers had on the rare occasion they spoke to senior officers.
“As you were, Crewman,” McL
eod replied, “How can we help you?”
“The last of the ammunition for the fighters has been loaded, but because of the nature of the it, I need a senior officer’s signature before I can take delivery officially.”
Harper exchanged a significant glance with the Captain, and returned his gaze to the crew chief with an arched brow.
“Why exactly do we need to personally approve a simple supply of ammunition,” Harper queried.
“The new ammunition is considered class four for storage, sir,” Gallagher replied.
There was another significant glance between Harper and the Captain, this time with a little more urgency. Gallagher looked on with anticipation, and perhaps, Harper thought, a slight amusement at the senior officers’ confusion.
“Commander Harper, go down to the maintenance deck and find out what’s going on here,” the Captain directed, with more than a hint of curiosity in his voice. “While you’re at it, check in with every department personally. Make sure they are ready for departure at 0930. I’ll be on the bridge.”
“Understood, Captain. With me, Crewman,” Harper said as he led the way towards the personnel elevator. Gallagher saw this and corrected him.
“Actually, Commander, it would be faster to go down with the fighters,” he said with a smile. Harper looked at the craft elevator as if he had never seen it before.
“I suppose you have a point,” Harper conceded.
They walked over to the craft elevator and stood facing the flight deck. Harper put a hand on the hull of one of the fighters as Gallagher flipped a switch to his right. Amber warning lights lit and spun, and the elevator jolted to life. He began to feel like himself again, as the civilians, media, and the flight deck in its entirety, disappeared from view.
Chapter 2
Maiden Voyage
June 1, 2213
0830
Sol System
As they descended onto E deck, Harper admired the new Mark III fighters. The aging Mark I that Harper had flown when he was younger was identical in outward appearance to the Lockheed Blackbird of the 20th and 21st century. In his time, the graviton generators that now allowed small craft to fly inside a planet’s atmosphere with ease were underdeveloped, and the craft still had to depend on the flight characteristics of its pre-warp counterpart. With the subsequent improvements to the technology, the cockpit had been moved back towards the rear wings, giving it a more triangular shape, and it sat on its landing skids closer to the ground. Besides its obvious cosmetic changes, the Mark III also had improved armor, advanced guidance systems, upgraded warp capability, and nearly impervious RLADAR stealth.
As the bottom of the elevator descended to its lowest position, the light and noise from the hanger bay poured into their small alcove. The sight of the hanger deck still astonished Harper whenever he saw it. It was nearly as wide as the flight deck itself, but did not have the large open doors on either end. It was also only as tall as two decks, as opposed to the flight deck’s three, from the stern to 21 meters forward, where it shrunk to one. That forward 24 meter stretch of deck was where the speed lifts would be able to bring large amounts of fighters to the flight deck for immediate launch. Beyond that, were two squadron ready rooms, and all the pilots' quarters.
Both levels of the hanger bay were crammed with fighters, maintenance personnel, armaments, and tool boxes. Space would be alleviated later when the ready fighters were moved up to the flight deck, but the it had been left empty, lest an overly curious civilian damaged an obscenely expensive piece of military equipment.
When the elevator stopped, Gallagher motioned for Harper to follow him. They walked haphazardly toward the port side of the hanger bay, dodging various pieces of equipment and crew members who were too hard at work to worry about watching other people’s movements.
“This way if you please, Commander,” Gallagher said over his shoulder as he placed his thumb on a scanner next to a hatch. Glancing up, Harper addressed his mental map of the ship and knew they were entering the small munitions armory for the fighters. A room that at any given time could contain as much as 2,106,000 rounds of ammunition. Enough to fully arm each of the 156 fighters 10 times.
“I have to ask. Why exactly would the cannon ammunition for the fighters be class four storage,” Harper inquired.
“Easier to show you, sir,” Gallagher replied.
As the hatch slid open, they were met by a particularly formidable looking MP. He gave Gallagher a penetrating stare of evaluation that seemed to shake the crew chief’s usually cool demeanor. It seemed an eternity before the MP broke away to see the Commander stripes on Harper’s sleeves.
He considered them for another moment and reluctantly, it seemed, moved aside to allow the two men to gain access to the room. An MP is happiest when blocking a door and intimidating those who wish to enter, Harper thought with mild amusement. The walls of the large chamber were lined with shelves containing black ammunition cases from floor to ceiling. Harper immediately recognized the cases to be fireproof and blast resistant. The reflective red diamond on every side of the cases, with the silver number 4, caught his attention as well.
Gallagher carefully pulled one of the cases off the shelves and placed it on a bare table in the center of the room. Harper approached with a small amount of unease as Gallagher opened the case and prudently picked up one of the rounds. The tips were a brilliant shade of amethyst and gave the impression that it was made of a precious stone rather than a refined metal.
“You remember the planet they found on the edges of the Recluse system,” Gallagher asked with the grin of a child who had acquired a new play thing.
“An abundance of beautiful, useless, rock, if I recall,” Harper responded.
“Turns out, not so much. That stone is the new bullet for the cannons. If I were to take so much as a match to the tip of this round, if I had a death wish that is, it would melt the cartridge, go through my hand, and most likely end up on K deck before it burned itself out,” he explained. “If we were lucky. There’s some chance it could still breach the hull.”
“That explains a lot,” Harper said as he picked up the round with trepidation. “Definitely worthy of class four.” Every item on a star ship, especially a military vessel, must be accounted for and classified by the danger, or lack thereof, it posed to the ship and the people on it.
Class one storage was the most mundane, and for all intents and purposes, innocuous items. This included, uniforms, paper documents, toiletries, etc. Items that would be nearly impossible to damage the ship with, and you would have to go out of your way to harm a person with. Class two storage items were still mostly harmless, but required special care to prevent damage to the item, such as avoiding moisture, static discharge, or certain temperatures. Things like food, electronics, and sensitive mechanical parts, fell under this category.
Class three storage was the typical classification for most weapons and ammunition on a star ship in this day and age. It identified items that were capable of seriously harming living things or the ship, if properly activated, but not prone to accidents. Powder propellants had been nearly entirely replaced by a gel that reacted explosively when given an electric charge. Even the explosives in the Blitzkrieg cannon shells, and the Nighthawk missiles, fired by Resolution were non-volatile until activated. You could beat on class three items with a hammer, light them on fire, or drop them down three flights of stairs, and you may end up at Captain’s mast, but no one would die.
Class four storage, typically reserved for dangerous chemicals, which had sub-classes of their own, described items that that if not handled and stored carefully, would most certainly injure or kill crew members, or damage the ship. The bullets in these new rounds could easily cause widespread death, and perhaps even disable or destroy Resolution herself if hit by so much as a stray spark.
“Do you have a plan for protecting these between the store room and the fighters,” Harper asked.
“I’ve requisitioned enough se
aled magazines to have every round pre-loaded, and I’ll have a crew of A-Os in here doing just that as soon as you clear the cargo,” Gallagher explained. “These rounds won’t be exposed again till they’re being fired at a Salaxian hull.”
“And from the sounds of it, there will be a breech for every hit,” Harper responded with admiration for the new munitions. “Consider them cleared.”
* * *
Harper had made his way down to G deck, via the stairs that ran through the hanger deck workshops, and entered the engineering section through the port ion thruster generator room. He made his way aft and onto the catwalk that over looked the main engineering section, which stretched from port to starboard hulls, and towered from K deck all the way to F deck. The chamber he was in contained various machinery and plumbing for the ship, as well as a large anti-matter reactor, but this wasn’t what he wanted to see.
He descended from the catwalk to the lowest levels and continued aft. Although the ship was not in motion, the roar of the machinery was still nearly deafening. The other thing that made the engineering section unique was that, at least until the equipment was broken in, it needed more space than engineers, so the loud cavernous room appeared to be nearly deserted.
A few moments later, he arrived at a hatch on a curving bulkhead. To the left of the hatch was a thick pipe, which he knew fed from the warp intake on the ventral hull of the ship, and another identical hatch. He hit the button to slide open the hatch, and stepped over the lip of the door, entering the large cylindrical room.
In front of him towered a gleaming white reactor, climbing nearly to F deck. At each deck level it was wrapped in a catwalk and fed by various pipe lines and control panels. Several engineers were taking readings, and checking valves. Two levels up, Lieutenant Commander Kara Miles heard the hatch closing and looked down with a smile.
“Welcome, Commander,” She shouted.
Resolution: Bad Star Page 2