The man at the couch who initially noticed their arrival laughed. “No sir, no doubt. Only ell-tee can drink that, but he’s not really human after all. With all due respect, sir.”
The armored man in the corner grunted an acknowledgement and made his way over to the pool table. The three people at the couches walked over as well, with the redhead putting away the rest of the VR gear and joining them. Gesselli set her briefcase down on the end of the synthoak pool table, scattering the cash stacked there. One of the pool players raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Gesselli addressed the group. “I’m sure you’ve been briefed on who we are and what our mission is. If you haven’t, please let me know and I’ll send you the data.” Her emphasis on the word If made it quite clear she expected no one to take her up on that. “Can someone give me access to the wall?”
“Got it, ma’am,” said the woman from the couch, making her way back to the holowall and fiddling with the remote. “Channel 12-B,” she said after a moment.
Gesselli opened her flexscreen, tapped a few keys, and the wall image mirrored her flexscreen. It showed Poliahu from orbit. “We have a spy satellite in orbit right now, feeding us the latest data, and still as of today it appears they have little to no defensive capabilities. Currently, the colony consists of…”
Gabriel stood up from the counter he was leaning on and walked to the pool table. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. We can go over this during the flight. We have, what, four days or so to Poliahu?”
She looked back at her flexscreen. “Four days, six hours from launch.”
“Plenty of time for updates, don’t you think? And I think you’ll agree the situation may change between now and then, so we may as well skip the latest updates until closer to arrival. Besides, I’d like to at least find out who I’ll be fighting alongside.”
“Fine. I’ll be in my stateroom if you need me.” She abruptly cut the connection, grabbed her briefcase, and quickly left the room, leaving behind more than one slack jaw.
“Uh, sir, will the lieutenant be joining us on the mission?” the woman near the holowall asked.
Gabriel smiled. “No such luck, sorry to disappoint anyone.”
“She’d have made great target practice,” one pool player said, only somewhat under his breath.
“At ease,” Gabriel said. “Introductions, please. I’m sure everyone knows all about me, but I’m at a complete disadvantage. Except for you,” he said with a nod to the redheaded VR player. “Mikaela Sabra, correct? I believe you served on Ganymede when we had those issues with mining a few years back? I had a team there as well, although not quite as front-line as you were.”
The redhead stiffened. “Sir, that’s correct. I didn’t realize you were there, I, uh…”
“Relax, Warrant Officer, is it?” His database showed exactly who she was and what rank; he just wanted to show a little naiveté to settle the atmosphere and stir the conversation.
“Uh, no sir, I was promoted a couple of times since then. It’s Lieutenant Junior Grade, Commander.” She smiled a bit, but the smile never reached her eyes, Gabriel noted.
“Excellent work, you and your team out there. Wasn’t an easy situation, was it? A lot of angry people lost their jobs, and we were close to losing the entire moon,” he said, watching her face intently. His neuretics passively scanned her body reactions.
Her jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. “No, not easy at all. I’m fortunate to have made it out of there in one piece.”
“And with a couple of extra pay grades as well, how about that,” Gabriel said lightly, again intently watching her reaction. Nothing this time. She was well in control of her emotions, but there was definitely something bubbling below the surface. “Nice to be working with you on the same side, sniper,” he added, and this time he got a flash of anger popping up in one of his readouts: increased heartbeat, dilated pupils, flushed skin. Yes, another one to watch.
“Commander, Ensign Keven Takahashi, pleasure to meet you.” The young man who had brought everyone to attention extended his hand. He was slightly shorter than Gabriel, around six feet or so, with a shock of spiky brown hair, bright green eyes, and a baby face, with just a hint of Oriental features.
Gabriel took his hand and gave a quick shake. “Likewise,” he replied. “Aren’t you a little young for ensign-grade?”
One of the pool players coughed.
Takahashi’s face reddened a bit. “I’ve put in my time, Commander, just like everyone else.” His demeanor indicated he got this question quite often. “I graduated second in class from the Mexico City Naval Academy, specializing in exobiology, and have been on three combat missions.” He emphasized three.
“Well done, Ensign,” Gabriel replied. “Can you fire a weapon?”
“Of course, sir, I achieved highest marksman ranks my senior year and have qualified Proficient every test since.”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, can you fire a weapon…at another human being?”
Takahashi cocked his head slightly, then caught his meaning. “Sir, yes I can. Not that I’m proud of it, but my record shows three confirmed combat kills on Beth-Barah.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re correct, nothing to be proud of either, but something I need to know before I put my ass on the line.” Gabriel paused. “Takahashi. Any relation to the famous…”
“Yes, Commander, Masahiro was my great-grandfather,” the ensign replied.
Gabriel gave a short nod. “So spaceflight is in your blood?”
“Well, yes and no. I still have a little, uh, illness issue with, well…” his voice trailed off. “But, that should be all taken care of,” he continued. He held up his arm, showing a small shiny band around his wrist. “Or so the commercial says,” he said with a smile. “You’d think after two hundred years of spaceflight they’d have come up with a cure by now.”
“They have cured the common cold,” Gabriel replied. “Guess that’s not high on their list.”
“Petty Officer Second Class Galen Sowers, Commander,” one of the pool players said, shaking Gabriel’s hand. Sowers was Takahashi’s height but broader in build, buzz-cut hair, with slightly-olive skin; an almost Mediterannean look to him. “Electronics and comm specialist.”
“Experience?”
“Bachelors of Science in Communication Systems from Sao Paulo, Masters in quantum computing from UCF. Also put in a year after graduation at Apple, but my father, uh, strongly recommended I join up to continue the Navy tradition.” He held up a hand. “Not that I’m complaining, I love the Navy, and this is my third off-world mission. Some people get the wrong idea when I give them the full history.”
“No worries, Mister Sowers. As long as you’re one hundred percent committed, I won’t have any issues at all. So you’re the low man on the totem pole here?”
Sowers chuckled. “Close, but that honor goes to Arturo.” He waved his hand in the direction of the other man who had been watching baseball.
“Petty Officer Third Class Arturo Jimenez, Commander,” the man said with a smile as he put an emphasis on his lower rank.
Gabriel took his proffered hand and gave it a shake. Jimenez was tall and wiry, a hair taller than Gabriel, dark skinned, with a slight hint of Mayan in his facial features. Very odd combination, Jimenez’s height and his Yucatan heritage. “Weapons and demo?” he asked.
“Uh, yes sir…how did you…”
“Scarred fingers on your left hand indicate close-in use of Geltex explosive, probably from a premature flash burn. Slight incision near your right eye is evidence of a sloppy NAF weapon targeting retina implant job. And honestly, you smell of tactite projectile propellant. No offense.”
Jimenez was taken aback for a second, then recovered. “Got me pegged, sir.” He glanced down at his left hand. “Didn’t have the money to get this fixed. Plus chicks tend to dig scars.”
Gabriel absently rubbed his right leg, the dead, ruined skin underneath his pants scratching at the fabric. “Not all
the scars, Mister Jimenez. And certainly not all the chicks.”
Jimenez nodded. “Right sir. Looking forward to working with you. And I’ll shower before launch.”
Gabriel looked at the other pool player, who was wearing a t-shirt with a patch showing his rank. Same one who had coughed earlier. “Ensign…?”
“Lamber, sir. Ensign Marco Lamber,” he said quietly. Gabriel noticed his dark hooded eyes first, which gave him a brooding appearance, almost scary. He had a Latino look, mustache and goatee, and his crinkled leathery skin showed he obviously had spent many a hard day in the sun. “Former Marine ground pounder, sir, looking to see some other worlds before my time’s up.”
Gabriel nodded. “Understand. Hope you don’t think the Navy is an easy gig?” He picked up a ball from the table, the eight, rolling it around in his hand.
Lamber smirked, reminding Gabriel of Gesselli’s look. “No sir, but I’m tired of humping through jungles and across deserts. Ready for a new challenge.”
“You may get your wish, Ensign. And it certainly won’t be a jungle or desert.”
“Good afternoon, Commander, I’m Chief Warrant Officer Teresita St. Laurent,” the woman who was watching baseball said, offering her hand. “Medic and shooter, at your service. Everyone calls me Tee.”
“Nice to meet you, Chief,” Gabriel said, setting the eight ball down and shaking her hand. Very small in stature, St. Laurent had tiny features, but piercing blue eyes, sparkling with some hidden knowledge. Gabriel could almost feel her brain running overtime behind those eyes. “Canadian?”
“Mostly. Father is Canadian, mother is Cuban. Makes for interesting holidays at our house,” she replied.
“I’ll bet,” Gabriel said. “Medic or shooter primarily?”
“Medic by trade, shooter at heart,” she said with a smile.
“Excellent, my favorite type.” Gabriel noticed the armored lieutenant hadn’t said a word. He walked up to him and extended his hand, looking slightly up into his eyes. “Okay, big guy, tell me about yourself.”
The large man returned his look, then glanced down at his hand. Several seconds went by, then he took the hand and squeezed. Hard.
Oh boy, Gabriel thought. Here we go. Alpha male lion, his pride invaded by a new alpha male. He returned the squeeze, just enough to let the man know he wasn’t backing down, but not enough to make him feel threatened. He didn’t engage his enhanced muscle system for fear of not only breaking the big man’s hand, but also his spirit. Team is team, after all. And that’s another upgrade he didn’t need others knowing about.
The man looked back into Gabriel’s eyes and gave a small nod, releasing his hand. “Lieutenant Harris Brevik, sir. Glad to have you on board.” His voice was a low rumble, like quiet thunder.
Gabriel studied Brevik’s face, but didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. His neuretics did detect faint signs of upgraded milspec rets in Brevik, but nothing too out of whack for a combat-rated officer. And one that apparently knew his way around armor and weapons.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate you ceding team command to me without any problems,” Gabriel said carefully, again watching for reaction. Brevik nodded, not giving anything away.
Gabriel turned back to the group. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you. I know you’ve gotten the overview of the mission. Looks like a piece of cake on the surface, an undefended colony filled with a bunch of stoners, but pieces of cake never seem to work out as planned.”
He walked over to the food dispenser unit and punched in codes for a ham sandwich. “Like I said earlier, we can hold off on mission details until after launch. Right now, I need someone to point me in the direction of an actual cup of coffee.” He looked down at what emerged from the dispenser. “And a decent meal.”
Chapter 6
“Have you flown in the new Panther-class, Commander?” St. Laurent asked over her shoulder.
Gabriel sat in the fourth row of the launch transport, a stripped-down utilitarian version of the luxurious Constellation that had driven him to the barracks the day before. No leather couches, no tinted windows to block the blinding New Mexico morning sun, and far less in the way of shock absorption.
“No, Chief, it’s only come on line since I’ve been…away,” he replied, gritting his teeth as the transport bounced over another uneven section of ceramacrete. The facility is starting to show its age, he thought. Like a bankrupt airport. He only hoped the spaceplane was truly “new” as St. Laurent had termed it.
Jimenez bared his teeth next to Gabriel. “It’s a beast, sir. Almost twice as fast as the Meteor-class, plush seats, plenty of room to stretch out, and a huge head for those of us,” he said with an nod of his head towards Takahashi, who sat directly in front of him, “who can’t handle zero-G.”
“Yeah, but no drink service!” Takahashi shot back.
Sowers chimed in from his shotgun seat next to the driver. “You, zero-G, and beer? That’s the last thing any of us want before a mission!”
“Hey, screw you Galen! The last time I checked…”
Gabriel listened to the banter continue, noticing not just the camaraderie of a team that had worked together in the past, but the odd silence from Sabra and Lamber, who sat in the second row together behind the driver and Sowers. Nothing too out of the ordinary; he’d been on plenty of missions that started in a library-like hush as men and women prepared in their own way to face combat. But the two of them…he wasn’t sure. Almost like their silence fed off each other, some type of unspoken agreement. The lack of chatter from the massive Brevik in the rear of the truck, his bulk requiring its own row, didn’t bother him nearly as much. Gabriel already had him pegged as a shoot first, ask questions later type of leader.
The transport turned a corner around a fueling facility and crunched to a stop at the edge of the tarmac. Gabriel looked out the dusty window and got his first glimpse of the spaceplane that would be taking his team to orbit.
The NAFN Panther-class orbital transfer vehicle, or OTV, sat on four massive sets of tires on the edge of the runway, its white fuselage gleaming in the rising sun behind its twin tails. A tumbleweed bounced its way along the edge of the ceramacrete next to the plane, making the entire scene appear straight out of an oil painting one might find in the Monterrey Museum of Modern Art. Gabriel had a few minutes before they’d be cleared to board, so he accessed his military vehicle database and pulled up the plane’s stats and history.
The Panther-class was based on NASA’s original Blackstar project back in the mid-twenty first century, a project that was mothballed due to drastic budget constraints during the South American War, and tabled permanently with the dissolution of NASA in 2062. Recently, the NAFN restarted the project, something Gabriel had heard rumors about before he left the service, and apparently this was the result.
Travolta II, it said in black letters on the nose, just below the smoked cockpit windows. Gabriel accessed a history of the name: some actor-turned-pilot-turned-senator from the early twenty-first, so it seemed. He moved on to the specs.
The spaceplane was a combination lifting-body/wing design, 190 feet long, slightly shorter than a mid-sized supersonic passenger plane, and was shaped like a squat wedge. It reminded Gabriel of an axe blade lying on its side, edge forward. Just aft of and slightly lower than the cockpit windows, the spaceplane mounted canard wings that sprouted 11 feet from the fuselage. Further towards the rear, two main delta wings, 36 feet in length each, added to the lift provided by the wedge shape. Combined with the 40-foot wide body, the wings gave it an overall span of 112 feet. Twin tails pointed skywards from either side of the blocky end, and although Gabriel could not see the rear from his angle, the database specs showed six massive 20,000 horsepower Rolls Royce ion ram/scramjets as main propulsion, able to accelerate the spaceplane to escape velocity in under three minutes, plus eight additional hydrazine jets for orbital maneuvering. All in all, as Jimenez said earlier, an absolute beast of a spaceplane.
The hot, dry New Mexico air greeted Gabriel once again as he stepped from the transport, he being the second to last out. Brevik muttered profanities as he unfolded himself from the rear seat behind him. Most I’ve heard from him since yesterday, Gabriel thought.
Unlike himself, each of the team members carried small personal items with them, he noticed. St. Laurent had a flexscreen tube and stainless steel coffee mug. Sowers had a basketball under his right arm, although Gabriel had no idea where or when he’d be able to use it. Jimenez had a shoulder bag with a guitar sticking out of it. Sabra had a hardcover (actual paper!) book, which seemed out of place for her hard disposition. Lamber had a floppy straw hat similar to those worn in Southeast Asia, along with a ten-inch long combat knife sheath (Gabriel knew it to be empty, as any and all weapons are always secured in the cargo hold for launches). Takahashi struggled carrying a duffel, zipped shut and giving no indications of its contents. Brevik had the oddest item of all - a tiny harmonica case. Gabriel shook his head at the last. On a man that large, he thought, he may as well be carrying a whistle.
Empty handed, Gabriel followed the team to the spaceplane, stirring up dust with each step. As the team stepped onto the ceramacrete, the door to the spaceplane swung open and the steps automatically unfolded, revealing Renay Gesselli standing in the hatchway.
“Oh, shit,” Gabriel heard coming from the front of the team. Sowers, it sounded like. Can’t really reprimand him for that, he thought with a wan smile. Same reaction I just had.
“Don’t get your hopes up, ladies and gentlemen,” Gesselli called from the top of the steps as she started to make her way down. “I’ve just been loading the mission data into the system for you. I won’t be joining you,” she said as she reached the bottom. “But I’ve given you enough information to go over that you won’t miss me at all.”
Gabriel's Redemption Page 5